


Not Playing with a Full Deck

by 4ofCups



Category: Batman (Movies - Nolan), Dark Knight (2008), Smallville, Superman - All Media Types
Genre: Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-05
Updated: 2016-08-20
Packaged: 2018-05-11 21:51:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 46
Words: 232,460
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5643211
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/4ofCups/pseuds/4ofCups
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Gotham's most feared criminal has been insulted on a grand scale. What type of revenge will he exact on the woman who's responsible? Lois Lane will find out the hard way. This Joker is feral, bloodthirsty and hungry for revenge. Mature content.  </p><p>(Based on Nolan's "The Dark Knight", with crossover ties to Superman.  This story was originally published on a different website, and is still a work in progress.  Original date of publishing appears in the Author's Notes at the end of each chapter.  It's taking me a while to migrate the chapters over.  There are more than 50 to date, so more of this story is definitely coming...)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Channel Surfing

* * *

 

"Not Playing With a Full Deck" takes place about 1 year after TDK. I did not originally intend for this to be a crossover... it just sort of happened that Lois Lane entered the picture.

Rated E for extremely vulgar language, exceedingly graphic violence, some kinky sex and disturbing visuals thrown in. I’m dealing with criminals, not choirboys. They speak and act accordingly. If this type of story material offends you, don’t read this story.

**Reviews are ALWAYS appreciated, so don't be shy, whether you're a visitor or a site member.** I genuinely enjoy reading the insights, opinions and astute observations of such enthusiastic TDK/Batman/Joker fans, and I value your contributions.

. . . . . . .

Disclaimer: I don’t own the DC characters that appear in this story.

* * *

 

*** CHANNEL SURFING ***

**Chapter 1**

. . . . . . .

His eyes darted forward again, from the gaping blackness of the empty doorway behind them to the dull, blue glow of the television. Anxiety coursed through his veins.

To Mooney’s left sat a young man, snickering at the gossip rag of a show that passed for “entertainment news”. Sticks, so named for his gangly limbs, sat engrossed in the spectacle before him. He slapped the top of his thigh as a donkey-like bray passing for a laugh burst forth. He shook his head, smiling with guilt. “Dude. Dude! This is so wrong!”

They were the only two in the room, a dank, vast living room on the second floor of an abandoned crack house, not far from the wharf. The others from their crew were out carousing for the night: getting wasted, trolling for whores, who knew what… all of them were biding their time, awaiting their boss to sound the call to arms.

They worked for the most notorious criminal in Gotham, a man far beyond the curative capabilities of modern pharmaceuticals and unreachable by the most vaunted of psychiatrists and behavioral therapists. He was a pure sociopath, who had single-handedly tainted the association that Gothamites once held of joyful play with that of a clown. He made his image into the most menacing of avatars.

Joker.

It had been six months since the Joker had escaped from Arkham, and his thirst for chaos was still unslaked.

It was only a matter of time before his next scheme to terrorize the city came to fruition. When that moment did arrive, he would call on his crew. And they would come. It was suicide not to. They feared him as much as the general public did.

No. They feared him even more.

Sticks and Mooney had chosen not to stray too far from the Joker on this mid-autumn night, if only to curry favor with their boss (as if that were in the realm of possibility), demonstrating their loyalty to him by sheer geographical proximity. They were passing time by watching TV, while their captain turned his schemes in a back room somewhere.

Just minutes earlier, while surfing for porn, Sticks had happened across a satellite channel broadcasting out of Metropolis. The 11:00pm mark had just passed, and this station had begun its broadcast of a faux-news program, _Metropolis Live_ , which was little more than sensationalized gossip and rumor perpetuation disguised as a pop culture critique. Lots of splashy graphics, with plenty of pretty faces and overexposed cleavage. That last ingredient was what caught Sticks’ eye.

_Right on!_ Sticks hit the remote to record the show for later viewing, glad that they had lifted the TiVo from a house they’d hit a few months ago. Mooney was indifferent to the televised slime, flipping through a tattered and used back issue of Hustler, scratching absently at his unshaven neck. He preferred his smut the old fashioned way – by publication.

Initially, Sticks’ attention was caught by the hostess’ low-cut shirt, which barely concealed the unnaturally large breasts beneath it. He took a swig from the bottle in his lap. Before the whiskey could wash down, Sticks coughed abruptly and spit it out when the Clown Prince of Crime’s face appeared, filling up the entire TV screen. His choke drew Mooney’s attention out of the magazine. Both men quickly leaned forward toward the television set, eyes widening, mouths agape.

They were dumbfounded – the topic of this general shit-for-content TV program was the Joker himself. Not a factual presentation of the danger the criminal posed, but of the sensation he was becoming… as a character, not as a man.

It was exactly the flavor of popularity the Joker would have choked on and spat out.

This wasn’t about the fear the Joker inspired. _Metropolis Live_ didn’t chronicle the masses in Gotham who were afraid to leave their homes at night, for fear of crossing paths with the psychopathic clown. Instead, it focused on his surge in popularity as a fun-loving clown, who just happened into trouble. Like Dennis the Menace.

Gothamites lived in the same waters where the shark swam. They knew the destruction the Joker brought. But in Metropolis, the citizens had developed a cavalier attitude toward criminals, thanks to the frequent appearances of Superman. Criminals weren’t to be feared so much in Metropolis; they were just the bait for gratuitous TV footage of the Man of Steel.

Which was exactly why in Metropolis, the Joker seemed to be all the rage for them.

He was from Gotham, a city with an ominous cloud over it, cast as much by the Batman, as by the criminal underworld. There was a duality to Metropolis' fascination with the Joker; there was a fringe backlash against the squeaky clean image Superman had bestowed on the city, and it led some of them actually to cheer for the criminals who hadn’t been eradicated from the streets; on the other hand, the very illusory veil of safety Metropolis now viewed their criminals through cast the Joker as… a high spirited circus character. They didn’t _get_ him. Many literally bought into the clown image, thinking him just an eccentric who liked purple.

Those two strands of public opinion wove together to create the newest craze – JokerMania, which could be purchased at WalMart in the form of action figures, kindergarten costumes and even breakfast cereal.

He was being deified. Not in a menacing Hades, god-of-the-underworld sort of way. No, deified in the modern sense of the word – he had become a _product._

Mooney was astonished. He couldn’t help wonder, _Do da producers of this show have a fuckin’ death wish?! When da Joker sees this, all hell will break loose._ Then, another thought struck him _. I wouldn’t want to be in da same room if his sees –_

He felt his dinner threaten to come back up.

“Sticks.” No reaction from the young man, who sat agog. “Hey, Sticks, turn it down, will ya?” He swatted the back of his meaty hand against the knee of his lanky cohort, as he nodded in the direction of the TV. “Turn it down, or change da damn channel, ya dumb punk. Boss gets wind of dis, and he’ll fuckin’ blow a gasket.” _Or blow us away. Probably both._

Sticks made no move to change the channel. He wanted to see how far the show would go in its quest for shock value.

Mooney’s stomach churned acid as he listened to the lurid narration that the hostess cooed about their boss. “I’m not shittin’ ya, kid. Dis means bad news, I’m tellin’ ya. Really bad.”

The young man looked askance at the behemoth sitting on the ratted sofa to his right. In defiance, Sticks kept the volume -- and the channel -- right where it was. For such a large man, Mooney was being a pussy. “No, I ain’t changin’ it. I’m watchin’, here.”

Mooney jabbed Sticks in the arm. “I’m not kiddin’, Sticks. Shut this crap _off!_ ”

Sticks shrugged his shoulders. “C’mon. Wouldn’t it be kind of… you know, funny if he saw this show?” His eyebrows raised and an impish grin spread across his face. “You know, if he totally just lost his shit over this?” Both men turned their attention momentarily back to the tube. The screen was now split with the Joker’s face on one side, and a Cabbage Patch Kid doll on the other, ostensibly drawing vague parallels between the villain’s surge in popularity outside of Gotham with that of those ugly-ass dolls from the early 1980’s.

At that ridiculous comparison, Sticks leaned his head back and pursed his lips. “Ooooeeeee!” He pointed at the screen. “Dude, can you imagine how apeshit he’d go if he saw that? Let’s call him in here to see this! I’d pay serious money to see what would happen! That would be something to s—“

His sentence was cut short by the vice grip around his throat. The large man’s round face filled Sticks’ vision, rank breath laced with cheap beer spewing forward. As the smaller man gasped for air, his eyes bugged out, and he was vaguely aware of the TV remote control being snatched from his limp hand with a vulture’s clawing.

“Are you out of your fuckin’ _mind_?” Mooney’s furrowed brow drew Sticks’ gaze to meet his own. The large Irishman wasn’t furious. He was terrified.

He looked over his shoulder nervously at the doorway again. Boss had removed the door itself, leaving a gaping, empty frame. Doors weren’t permissible in this hovel. Doors facilitated privacy. None of the underlings were permitted the privilege of privacy. Paranoid schizophrenics don’t present opportunities for others to conspire right under their noses.

Mooney’s gut tightened. The doorway was still empty. Good.

He released Sticks’ throat. The lithe younger man’s eyes watered, then he sputtered as air filled his lungs again. Despite the pain, he didn’t let the physical agony of his burning throat rift his fix on Mooney’s face. The man who loomed over him was enormous, almost cartoonish in his proportions; yet something had him so rattled he was visibly shaking. That put Sticks on edge.

“Listen, kid, and you. Listen. Up. _Good_.” He poked the young man with force in the chest to punctuate each word. Wanted to make sure he had Sticks’ attention. He did.

Sweat beaded up on Mooney’s forehead. “Da boss is not a guy you wanna fuck wit’. Take it from me, you don’t want to see him pissed off or…” His eyes darted to the TV and back. “… _humiliated_ , just to see what he’ll do. To see how far he’ll go. You got me?”

Mooney dropped his voice to a whisper and continued. “If ya hadn’t already noticed, Joker’s _crazy._ I mean, look at ‘im. You think _sane_ people look like dat?” He leaned back on the sofa, and ran a hand over his wide forehead and over the top of his head, in an effort to brush back hair that had long ago receded out of sight. “Hell, no. He is NOT one you want to see get pissed, just for the sport of it.”

Mooney didn’t have to reach far into his memory bank to the last time he’d seen one of the crew make that fatal mistake.

It had happened in this very room. He told the story. Sticks listened with rapt attention.

And while he listened, Sticks paused the show, freezing the blurred image on the TV screen -- one of stark white, pitch black and a slash of blood red, upon lips curled back in a smile. Perhaps, upon reconsideration, it was a sneer.

* * *

. . . . . . .

Author's Notes for "Channel Surfing"

. . . . . . .

Where did the premise of this story come from?

I am fascinated with villains, and the power they wield to terrorize. One of my favorite questions to ask when I see or read about a dreadfully wicked character is this:

What would happen if this person were made angry? Really, truly angry?

Enter Heath Ledger’s Joker from The Dark Knight: this is one of the most brilliant portrayals of a deviant I’ve ever seen on screen. The mannerisms, the speech pattern, the poise – everything fit together seamlessly to create an absolute monster. After seeing TDK a few times, the familiar question came back, and I couldn’t shake it from my mind.

What consequences would there be should a man this unhinged ever experience true fury?

Originally, this story was going to be a one-shot. A dark comedy. I thought it would be entertaining to come up with a relatively short story about punishment levied by the Joker on those who had kicked the proverbial hornet’s nest by mocking him.

However, as this first chapter unfolded, I found that there was much darker territory to cover. The idea for a one-shot was quickly scrapped.

Rather than come up with a silly story to explore what revenge the Joker would exact, I thought it would be much more exciting to try to present it as realistically as possible.

Given the foundation laid in The Dark Knight, it would be inconceivable that a single person in Gotham would participate in a public provocation of the Joker. That led to the idea to use Metropolis. It seemed fair to extrapolate that if Gotham existed, Metropolis would, too.

I picture Metropolis as the photographic negative of Gotham; happier citizens who can afford to live with a more cavalier attitude because they have the ultimate superhero in their midst. To me, Metropolis is something akin to Hollywood: a city out of touch with true hardships and danger, almost looking to spin something into trouble for the entertainment of it; a city becoming bloated with complacency and bored with the safety it takes for granted. This would be the wellspring from which Pandora’s Box would be opened.

I chose to open the story with two of the Joker’s lackeys – rather ordinary cast-offs whose perfunctory evening routine was capsized by a simple television broadcast – to provide as accurate a context as I could for the tactile fear the Joker inspired. I wanted to present the Joker as seen through the eyes of his own crew: how the naive (Sticks) saw him, versus the seasoned veteran (Mooney). As Mooney leads into his cautionary tale, we see Sticks’ veil of blissful ignorance start to tatter and fray.

-4oC, 11.03.2008


	2. A Grave Misstep

*** A GRAVE MISSTEP ***

**Chapter 2**

**. . . . . . .**

Unbeknownst to Sticks, his recruitment to the Joker's squad of goons was necessitated by a vacancy. One that had come about rather abruptly, when a young man named Tangier had been…

…dishonorably discharged from the Joker's service.

About four months earlier, Tangier, the reckless wiseass that he was, thought that the success of their recent heist somehow translated into immunity from the Joker's fury. Thought he could get away with a verbal jab at the Joker's expense – in his very presence, no less – hitting below the belt. The bravado of testosterone had overridden good sense.

He wasn't much younger than the Joker, and mistook their proximity in age for a fraternal bond that wasn't there. Never had been.

That night, the crew had managed to elude the Batman in the course of a heist. Back in their lair, the man with the white painted face danced circles of delirious joy around his lackeys, who were grouped together in the middle of the room tallying the value of the night's haul. The Joker was giggling and shouting things that made little sense to the others, save the occasional epithet about the Batman. Ever the target of his derision, the Joker mocked the caped crusader by flapping of his long purple coat, to imitate wings. The trademark madman's grin stretched wide across tightened skin.

The others knew enough to keep their attention focused on the job at hand. Let the boss have his fun. Keep heads down, no eye contact with the Joker. Only when receiving direction. Otherwise, none. Not ever.

Evidently, Tangier didn't get that memo.

As he watched the Joker circle about, he thought it would be funny to make a snide remark. To see if he could get a few yucks from his colleagues, cementing his stead in the group.

"You sure do get riled up when Batface shows up, don't ya, boss?"

The Joker appeared to pay him no mind, entranced in his own game. Tangier was annoyed at the lack of response. He pushed further. "So, what's the deal with the Batman, eh, Joker? Why do spend so much time talking about 'im? It's like you're obsessed with 'im, or something."

He should have stopped there. Maybe he would have lost just an ear, or had an eye gouged out. Maybe a few fingers cut off for his insolence, no more.

But Tangier didn't stop there. A few of the other thugs eyed each other as their mouths tightened. Shut up, Tangier. NOW.

Tangier persisted, and a smile crossed his lips. He decided to swing for the fence with his next jab.

"Why all the excitement when he shows up? Is the Batman your secret pillow-buddy? Do you pitch and he catches, or is it the other way around?"

The gravity of the remark sank in. All the crew members drew in their breath in unison, completely horrified. At this implication, the Joker's smile drained from his face.

The air stopped moving. So did the Joker. He stopped abruptly.

A dead stop.

Tangier was too obtuse to catch this, too caught up in his own reckless momentum. Tangier lowered his voice, but everyone – including the Joker – could still hear him. He elbowed Mooney, and gave a nod and wink in the Joker's direction.

"Joker's probably a fag. All that make-up and theatrics. C'mon!" He grinned at how clever and funny he thought he was. He even laughed.

No one else did.

No one was laughing, except for Tangier. This eventually came to his attention.

No one else said a word. What can be said to a man who just dug his own grave?

The Joker leered at the half-wit. The moment seemed to stretch on without end. Tangier's self-congratulatory chuckles at his own perceived wit disintegrated into coughs. Then into a nervous hack, as he realized the enormity of his trespass.

That joke hadn't gone over well with the Clown Prince of Crime.

No. Not very well at all.

"What. Did. You. Just. Say?" The Joker spat each word. He eyed Tangier with the stealth of a feral predator, and tipped his chin downward. The Joker's vision bled black with fury, black with hatred. Black with the absence of conscience and the presence of wanton malice.

Then, slowly, he advanced toward Tangier. Steadily, with purpose. Oh yes, most assuredly with purpose.

Everyone else in the room instinctively took a few steps back.

This was going to be ugly.

* * *

. . . . . . .

  
Author's Notes for "A Grave Misstep"

  
. . . . . . .

  
The Joker has been called a freak, a clown, a madman... he's used to these labels. I'd go so far as to say that he embraces them, because they inspire fear in others. And fear is the root of chaos.

However, in the 'man's world' that vicious crime is, an accusation of homosexuality is an entirely different class of label, and not a flattering one. I don't see the Joker as homophobic; but I do think that he recognizes insolence of any kind as an affront to his authority. Any suggestion that he is somehow less than a man (which is what Tangier implied), and less than fearsome, would be an arrow through his pride and rouse his ire.

-4oC, 11.03.2008 


	3. Reprimand

*** REPRIMAND ***

**Chapter 3**

**. . . . . . .**

As he closed the gap that lay between himself and Tangier, the clown ran his tongue along the inside of his mouth. The scars were just as ragged along the delicate smoothness of the pink insides as they were on the outside of his face. Their raised relief caused him to suck his cheeks in, as much consciously as subconsciously. He savored the awareness he felt as he licked his own scars from the underside. He thought of the fleeting moments of pain that caused those rips in his flesh… and how his macabre exterior sparked terror in those who turned away from his scars. That pleased him.

The Joker smacked his lips in anticipation of the fun that was to come.

"Tangieeeeeeeeeeer," the Joker hissed as he tilted his head to the side and narrowed his eyes. ( _smack_ ) His tongue darted out and curled over his upper lip, then back into his mouth again. Quickly. Like a hyena anticipating the first bite into the neck of an injured warthog. "Tell me, _boy_ -" underscoring his unquestioned role as the authority figure, "-were you making a joke-ah?" Pause. Silence. (s _mack_ ) He thumped his chest for emphasis: "At _my_ expense-ah?"

The goon shrank away instinctively as the Joker advanced. He slunk back toward Mooney, hoping the size of the hulking man would offer some modicum of transferred courage. It did not. "S-s- 's jus' nuthin' boss." His voice cracked. "Nothin'."

Mooney couldn't move back any further out of the way, and he silently cursed Tangier for bringing what would be a vicious comeuppance in his direction.

"No, no it wasn't _nothiiiiiiing,_ " he drew out the word to expose the lie. "Tell me it again, this joke of yours. I don't think I heard it correctly. Was it a baseball joke?" The Joker's mouth broke into a smile, as he reached for something in his lower coat pocket.

Tangier swallowed. The Joker drew closer.

( _smack)_ "No?" The Joker raised his eyebrows and pretended to scan his memory bank. "Ah! Perhaps it was a _clown_ joke," the killer nodded, smile growing broader, "Was _that_ it?"

Closer.

Tangier's eyes pleaded for someone else in the crew to step in. No one did.

"Or was it…"

( _smack)_

The smile vanished, replaced with a sneer of yellow teeth. The voice dropped two octaves.

"… a gaaaaaay joke. About. Me." Not a question, a statement. An accusation.

A death warrant.

The Joker was now face to face with Tangier. The younger man was visibly shaking. All color had drained from his face. He knew that there was nothing he could say to undo what was said. He was speechless as he scanned the cruel face before him: the obscene scars, stretching the Joker's mouth to garish proportions across his face; the white greasepaint streaked with sweat revealing the flesh of the man beneath, one who seethed with rage.

The Joker remained… unsmiling. "Well, I fail to see the huuuumor in your remarkssss." He drew out the 's' like a hissing cobra. In a flash of violet, his right arm shot back around quickly. The large blade was poised under the victim's chin, like the tail of a scorpion ready to strike.

He continued, eyes boring into his subordinate. His voice was guttural. Demonic.

"Think you're funny, boy? Well, I'm not laughing, you pus-oozing sack of rat shit."

The Joker leaned in so close they were nose to nose, and some white face paint actually rubbed off on Tangier's face. He flinched at his boss' proximity. His eyes went from the Joker's face, to the knife's blade, then back again.

( _smack_ ) "In all fairness, maybe it was just your _delivery_ of the joke that fell flat. I'll give you another chance to try to get it right."

Everyone witnessing this challenge felt their bodies' muscles involuntarily clench in terrified anticipation.

The Joker stepped back just far enough to treat himself to the full view of Tangier's terror, still keeping himself within striking range. "Now - care to try that line on me one more time?" He used both hands to motion to himself, as if coaching a frightened young fox cub into the iron jaws of a bear trap. "Come on. Give it another go. See if you can make me smiiiiiiiiile."

Tears welled in Tangier's eyes. His voice failed him. He shook his head furiously from side to side. He dared not repeat his ill-chosen words.

The corners of the Joker's mouth curled upward, ever so slightly. Light glinted off the bowie knife. "No? Why not? Can't find yer balls to try it again-ah?" The Joker punctuated the last consonant with unalloyed venom.

Tangier could only blink.

(Smack) "Well, my boy, maybe I can find 'em for you."

Yes, Tangier had paid for that remark. Dearly.

In the weeks that followed, the remaining crew found themselves stepping on broken bits of cracked human teeth and the shards of a fractured mandible that had exploded across the floor.

* * *

 

As he sat on the couch with the wide-eyed Sticks, who hung on every word of the story, Mooney involuntarily looked downward at his own feet. He paused his story, just for a moment. He motioned Sticks to look down as well.

Mooney never could wash the stain from his shoes after Tangier's lower intestines dropped on them.


	4. Punishment

*** PUNISHMENT ***

**Chapter 4**

**. . . . . . .**

The Joker had disemboweled him.

Two cuts, in fewer than two seconds. That's all it took.

One quick, deep slice from sternum to groin.

Then another crossways, down low, severing Tangier's penis and testicles.

Tangier had been fully conscious when both cuts were inflicted. The Joker held the man's gaze the whole time, never watching where he drew the blade as he cut. He didn't need to. In moments like these, he preferred ragged approximation to surgical precision.

There had been a brief instance of silence, before Tangier's dawning comprehension of his body's ravaging intersected with the onset of excruciating pain.

A body does go into shock after injuries that grievous are inflicted. Just not soon enough.

Mooney would never forget the cloying splash at his feet as Tangier's innards hit the floor, nor could he ever banish the sound of Tangier's shriek from his memory. None of them would, and that was the Joker's intention.

As the quivering mass of flesh and entrails spilled out onto the floorboards, followed shortly by the body that had housed them, the Joker found his smile again as he looked at the pulpy mass that dripped through the fingers of his left fist.

The Joker opened his eyes wide in mock-surprise. "Why, here they are! I found yer balls, boy!" That elicited the high-pitched cackle that the psychopath was known for.

Two men pitched to the side and heaved up their dinners. Another man crossed himself, urinated in his pants, then passed out cold. Mooney gagged at the smell, and unconsciously cupped his own crotch. Everyone's blood ran cold.

"Yessiree, Bob! Er… I mean Tangier," the Joker smacked his own forehead in an exaggerated show of forgetfulness. "Not that it matters what the hell your name is now." He licked his lips again, and continued his dialogue (Mooney guessed it was more of a monologue, now) with the corpse at his feet. (smack) "You go up against me, and you'd better have brass ones. These," His eyes drifted downward to the testicles in his hand. "Just. Won't. Do."

The Joker threw the man's privates back in his face as Tangier's body jerked involuntarily on the floor, the life draining from him along with his blood. The clown wiped his gloved hand on the back of the sofa, scraping the remains of Tangier's privates from his palm.

"Wouldn't you agreeeeeeeee, men?" The Joker spun quickly on the rest and scanned the faces of his flock. They nodded in petrified accord.

The ironic smile began to fade from the Joker's lips. He brushed a lock of tangled, green-tinged hair from his eyes. "Ah, it disappoints me to think that one of my own team could spew such bile about me. Such… disgusting… lies." He paused, and shook his head, as if to clear it from the crude accusation.

"Tangier's in-sin-u-a-tion…" each syllable was ripe with outrage. He then trailed off, mouth pulled downward in a vicious scowl, and he began grinding his teeth. Audibly.

As the Joker ran Tangier's revolting allegation through his mind again, he rolled his eyes back in his head and shut his lids, in an attempt to quell his rising anger. "Disgusting. Lies."

His hands balled into fists at his sides. His head started to shake from rage. _Just like that old-time actress Katharine Hepburn_ , Mooney noted, but it didn't seem an appropriate time to draw that comparison or chuckle about it.

Then, the dam broke. The Joker's voice bellowed:

"Just who the **_FUCK_** thinks they can say such things to **_me_**?!"

Mooney, like the rest of the crew, felt his heart stop in his chest. The Joker's scream roused the man who had lost consciousness. He came to, thought better of it, then pretended that he hadn't. No one dared even breathe. God only knew what the madman would do next. Everyone's senses were on a razor's edge. The fear heightened everything, especially Mooney's sense of smell. The stench of piss and guts and puke filled his nostrils, and his balance threatened to leave him. He held fast to his stance.

The Joker pointed an accusing finger at the group. His eyes darted quickly over each face, scanning for any hint of insurrection. ( _smack_ ) "Anyone, and I mean ANYONE who thinks they can fuck with me, take note-ah!"

He spun on his heel and strode to the wall where he kept his props. His _favorite_ props. Essential to any good joke. The clown always found props funny. Like bombs, or knives. Or sledgehammers. He liked to keep several around. _You know,_ thought the Joker, _'cause everyone likes a good sight gag now and then. What's funnier than the surprise on the face of someone who sees their own blood spurting forth like a fountain, courtesy of an ice pick in their jugular to the hilt?_

He switched from inner rhetoric to external diatribe.

"I understand that you're all thugs, degenerates, cast-offs and head cases. That's why I've rounded you up. Nothing but _Gotham's finest_ for my needs," he said over his shoulder. "But if you think that you can trump _me_ on my own playground…" He reached for the sledgehammer resting against the wall. _An excellent choice_. "…then I'll wipe the smile right from your face."

He walked back over to Tangier's body.

(s _mack_ ) "That's a promise, boys, and I'll do it just like this."

He brought the sledgehammer down full-force, with a sickening crack into the side of Tangier's face. Then another, for good measure, whooping with delight as the weapon arced its destructive path through the air.

After he had made quick work smashing the lifeless head, the man in the purple coat tossed the bloodied weapon casually aside. He then crouched down to the mass of human remains, and pulled something from his vest pocket. A deck of cards.

He deftly cut the deck with one gloved hand, while he drummed his fingers on his leg with his other hand. He closed his eyes, leaving nothing but basalt pits in his skull. Without looking, he thumbed the top card off the deck, flipping it onto Tangier's chest. Right over the heart. It landed face up. Jack of Spades. The depiction of the Jack's face was ominous and foreboding, as if the artist hailed from the darkest crevasse a of mountain in eastern Europe. The visage was… vampiric. Mooney involuntarily gasped. It was a depiction of Vlad the Impaler.

"Remember, men," the Joker tilted his head as if coaxing a child to heed a warning. "In this house of cards – my house of cards – Joker trumps Jack." He opened his eyes, and motioned to Tangier's face. "Or jack _ass_ , as the case may be."

As he considered the crushed human skull at his feet, he thumbed the next card off from the top of the deck, landing it face up next to the Jack. Queen of Diamonds, drawn with a salacious come-hither smile. The clown hissed: "And Joker ain't no _queen_. You can take that to the _bank_."

The purple leather of the glove's thumb caught the next card on top, and flipped it over on top of the Queen. King of Clubs, resembling Nosferatu. Joker continued: "I am the king of this castle, and I'll club the heads of any dissidents into oblivion. Right Tangier?"

His men watched in confusion, as the Joker seemed to be waiting for Tangier's bulbous pulp of tongue to cluck forward a "Yessir!" against the shard of white bone that had been his maxilla.

The Joker slowly stood, then met the eyes of the men who cowered before him. Never looking at the deck in his hand, he drew the next card from the top, discarding the rest of the deck by tossing it to the side, cards fluttering and twirling to the ground like shards of lost sanity.

"In this house, men—" he held up the card for all to see. "—Joker is the king."

The card he held was a joker.

Mooney's eyes grew wide, and he heard someone behind him exclaim, "Holy fuck!"

The depiction on the card matched the man who stood before them. To a T. Long purple coat, coal lumps where eyes should have been, tangled yellow and green hair, and a bloodied slash for a mouth.

If there were ever a suspicion held by any of the men that the Joker retained some grip on sanity, this solitary card wiped that from the realm of reality.

The Joker's lips spread, and his garish expression grew to match that on the card. "Never forget: Jokers are wild, and _this_ Joker trumps all."

With that declaration, he bent forward, and inserted the card into Tangier's left eye socket.

The Joker stood up, turned and glided through the room with grace and stealth, purple coat billowing out behind him. Indeed, he had found his smile again.

He called out over his shoulder, waving his hand in dismissal, "Feed what's left of him to the fishies off the pier, will ya?"

* * *

 

. . . . . . .

Author's Notes for "Punishment"

. . . . . . .

When the Joker repeats the phrase "Disgusting. Lies.", he is trembling in anger. The men in the room assume his fury is the aftermath of Tangier's insinuation that he could be gay. However, that wasn't what provoked the Joker to commit the brutal evisceration.

As mentioned in the A/N in Chapter 2, the Joker did not act out of a homophobic-driven rage. Instead, he recognized that the remark was intended as slander; not just vilifying his name, but the Batman's as well. From my story's standpoint, the Joker esteems the Batman on many levels, and respects him for the worthy adversary that he is. Tangier's remark sullied the vaunted bond that the Joker believes he shares with the Batman, souring it into something lurid and base, something much less noble than what the Joker sees.

That just wouldn't do, would it?

As for the images on the playing cards - the Joker is a connoisseur, having chosen his accouterments with an exacting eye, given what the situation at hand merited. On this evening, the Joker wouldn't be carrying a common Hoyle card deck he'd picked up at CVS. In anticipation of a possible appearance by the Batman, he would be carrying on his person a symbolic deck, rare and designed with artistry. Having said that, I'm sure he probably has a pack of Hello Kitty playing cards somewhere, for just the appropriate occasion.

Additionally, I cannot help but draw the parallel (in my own mind) between the Joker's visage and that of something Gothic, something very vampire-like; hence the reference to Vlad the Impaler and Nosferatu. I see a very dark sexuality in the Joker's countenance that harkens back to the Gothic images of Dracula. Does anyone else see that?

-4oC, 11.03.2008

 


	5. A New Insult

*** A NEW INSULT ***

**Chapter 5**

**. . . . . . .**

Mooney shuddered as he recalled the sheer scope of the mess that was left.

No, riling up the Joker just for shits and giggles wasn't a wise move.

Sticks' jaw hung slack long after Mooney finished the story. Sticks blinked, then found his voice again. "Jesus Christ, dude." He exhaled with force. "Jesus, I didn't think it would be that bad." He shrugged, and motioned again toward the TV. "I just wanted to see how he'd react. Just for fun. Y'know, if he saw what people are doing to him out there."

Suddenly the air grew cold, and a voice crackled out from the open doorway. "Saw what, _gentlemen?_ " Irony dripped over the last word. The pitch was tinny.

Sticks sprung from the couch and spun, distancing himself from the clown, who had materialized without a sound behind them. Sticks' eyes were wide with fright. "Nothin', man. Nothing."

The Joker smiled his wolf's smile. "'Nothing' you say? Is that your final answer, or do you want to phone a lifeline?"

The joke flew right over Sticks' head. The Joker continued, "The last man who lied to me with _that_ word ended up missing an internal organ or two. And an external one that I'm sure held great value to him."

The Joker turned toward Mooney. "What was that scumbag's name? I forget." He hadn't forgotten, but wanted to test the water for fear.

"Tangier," Sticks spat out, before he could help himself. The Joker smiled. So he _had_ heard the story. So much the better. Having a reputation that preceded him meant that Ichabod Crane in front of him would give him the respect and rapt attention he demanded.

"Yes, it was Tangier," the clown hissed. A whimper escaped from Sticks.

"Why, Sticks—" ( _smack_ ) "—what's wrong? Are you friiiightened of me?" He drew out the word, savoring the fear that rolled off the lanky lad before him. He walked toward Sticks, shrugging his shoulders in an exaggerated show of innocence. "Afraid of li'l ol' _me?_ "

_Oh, shit_ , thought Mooney. He could see the Joker setting up his colleague for the punch line. _I can't go through another scene like Tangier._

The Joker's gloved right hand wagged a purple finger in the young man's face. "Now, I know what you're thinking." He brought his hands up to the sides of his own face, feigning fear. He raised his voice to a comical pitch, "But Grandma! What big _scars_ you have!"

The Joker started to giggle. Sticks shot a look at Mooney. Mooney could see the words going through Sticks' mind: _What the fuck is he getting at?_ Mooney said nothing, just as frightened to see where this was going as Sticks was.

Then the Joker lunged forward, grabbing the back of Sticks' neck with one hand, the front of his throat with the other. He affected a low, menacing rumble: "All the better to _scare_ you with, my dear!"

The front of Stick's pants grew wet. The stain of his own urine radiated outward and downward.

The Joker released him roughly, and looked down at the man's crotch. He raised his eyebrows. "Did you just—" (smack) "—piss yourself out of fear, or are you happy to see me?"

Sticks started to cry. "Oh Christ, man, I'm sorry! Just don't kill me!"

Delighted with his conquest, but just as quickly bored with it, the Joker turned to Mooney. "So what did—"

Sticks interrupted him with his rambling and couldn't stop. "Aw, God! Please don't kill me, man. Please don't! You win, I'll tell you whatever you want to know. But these freakin' fairy tales like Goldilocks - I can't take that psyche shit, man!"

The Joker dropped his smile. His indignation at being interrupted was quickly replaced by frustration. "I wasn't quoting 'Goldilocks'." His eyes drilled into Sticks. "That was from 'Little Red Riding Hood', dumbfuck." How could any of his goons appreciate the genius of his wit if they were all literature-retarded? He made a mental note to kill Sticks before the month's end for his sheer stupidity.

He jumped back on track and returned his attention to Mooney. "As I was saying before shit-for-brains interrupted me, what did you Neanderthals not want me to see? Hmmmmmm?"

Sticks stifled his sobs, and looked at Mooney, praying that the oaf wouldn't tell the Joker it was his idea to watch the TV show.

Mooney looked down from the Joker's face to the remote in his own hand. He knew he may as well have been holding a smoking gun. The Joker wrinkled his face in curiosity as he saw the remote in Mooney's bear-like paw, then he turned to the TV. He was taken aback by his own image frozen on the split screen.

He barked at Mooney to unfreeze the image. Mooney complied. The clown needed to hear – and see – exactly what was being broadcast about him.

His smile vanished. He leaned in closer to the television. He watched. He didn't speak.

And he watched some more. The only sound in the room was that of the TV. The Joker watched. Unblinking, taking everything in. Considering.

Mooney's fear prompted him to offer a conciliatory explanation for the TV show; trying to convince his boss to brush it off.

Without even turning to his target, the Joker pulled out a Glock from underneath his coat and put three rounds in Mooney's head, one between the eyes and two in the left cheek. Sticks screamed and ran from the room.

Mooney's body hit the floor.

There would be many other bodies hitting the floor for this outrage.

_So. Many. More._

As the Joker watched what played out before him on the tube, his mind was already scheming. As the show wrapped up, he focused his attention on some tart-of-the-week from Metropolis, who was narrating this insulting amalgam of images, pop psychology and lurid innuendos.

When the show signed off, he saw her name across the bottom of the screen. White bold font atop a red banner:

**LOIS LANE**

The Joker licked his lips again in delicious anticipation. This would be _fun._

His smile returned, and grew wide across his scarred, painted face. "Hold onto your hat, Mizzzzz Laaaane." (smack) "You won't even see what's coming, _darlin'_."

He turned to Mooney's body. "No she won't, will she Mooney? We'll see who has the last laugh."

Mooney, being dead, offered no reply.

* * *

. . . . . . .

Author's Notes for "A New Insult"

. . . . . . .

_Though his past is a mystery, I see the Joker as being very well read and sharp with literary references. Many of his jokes are predicated on the assumption that his audience has a broad enough cultural base to be able to pick up on his entendres and quips. It pisses him off if his jokes are wasted on dullards like Sticks._

_Bringing Lois into the story provided numerous possibilities. She's a character who needs no introduction, and everyone knows who the big guy in_ her _life is. But... what if she ended up in Gotham, instead of remaining tucked away safely in Metropolis? If there were no Superman around to save her, how far could the Joker go?_

_The Joker has witnessed what amounts to a televised mocking of his own image, on a scale far greater than what Tangier committed. If he disemboweled Tangier for a remark that was heard by a roomful of men, what would the Joker do to Lois for derision broadcast to millions? Would her gender curry any favor with the Joker, or would it make the situation even more dangerous for her? The element of sexuality sires an entirely different dynamic when it comes to revenge._

_-4oC, 11.04.2008_


	6. Fresh Meat

*** FRESH MEAT ***

**Chapter 6**

**. . . . . . .**

The constant low drumming of windshield wipers sweeping back and forth lulled Lois Lane's mind out of its usual heightened state of alert.

And she needed to be alert today.

She was driving to Gotham, a fairly good jaunt from Metropolis, for a late-afternoon interview with Bruce Wayne.

* * *

Late in the morning following the broadcast of _Metropolis Live_ that featured the Joker coverage, the press manager for the TV show had called Lois out of the editing room with a sense of urgency. Stepping out into the hallway, Lois was met by both the press manager and the executive producer of the show, Cheryl Lazlow.

Cheryl was an icy professional who had clawed her way to the top of the media food chain. She was the first woman in Metropolis to executive produce in the show's history, after years working at _The Daily Planet._ Lois saw her as a mentor, and admired her raw ambition. They were cut from the same cloth. This professional admiration was the sole factor that allowed Cheryl to persuade Lois to moonlight as a sometime-host on _Metropolis Live,_ despite Lois' instinctive disinclination.

Although Cheryl was not one to dole out nuggets of praise generously, she was fair in recognizing a job well done. Once Lois stood before her, the right side of Cheryl's mouth hiked up in a smirk. "Well, kid, looks like you've landed one of the biggest fish in the pond." Then, she actually broke a smile.

Had the comment come from anyone else, Lois would have lashed back instantly with barbed words, correcting that she was _not_ a kid at age 31, and didn't appreciate the patronizing verbal pat on the back. Instead, she bit her tongue and leaned her head forward, with a wry smile. "What's going on? Who exactly did I land?"

With that, Cheryl took her hand out of her silk jacket pocket and handed a cell phone to Lois. Lois looked down and wrinkled her brow, noting that the illuminated light indicated that there was a live call on the line.

With an air of skepticism, Lois took the phone. "Hello?"

A low-pitched, steady voice was on the other end. "Hello, is this Lois Lane?"

"Yeah, who's this?" Delicate manners had never been her strong suit.

"This is Bruce Wayne. I'm calling from Wayne Enterp—"

"I know who you are, Mr. Wayne," Lois was quick to cut him off, raising her eyebrows. "Gotham's billionaire playboy. Quite the womanizer." The hostility was thick in her voice.

Cheryl Lazlow's face tightened and she shot Lois a sharp look of reprimand. "Watch it," she mouthed.

Bruce smiled on his end of the phone, and his smile translated in his voice. "Well, I wouldn't believe all the tabloid gossip."

"I _don't_ believe gossip, Mr. Wayne. I'm a reporter, and as such, I only deal with facts. I stand by my original assessment."

Bruce suspected that she would be a tough egg to crack, but this wasn't quite the hostility he had anticipated. "I'm sorry, Ms. Lane, have I done something to offend you?"

Oh, she'd hoped the conversation would take a turn in this direction. _You'd better believe it, asshole. Eight months and counting, I've been waiting for this opportunity._ "Does the name Carrie Hoffmeier ring a bell?"

Bruce didn't have to think back far. He knew where this was going, and his voice cooled a bit. "The name rings a bell."

"It should. She turned out to be one of your 'Flavor-of-the-Week' girls. She's a friend of mine, Mr. Wayne. Smart, funny, with a Masters degree in Fine Art. You dated her briefly. Then back in February, you brought her as your date with you to the Gotham Symphony Orchestra fundraiser. Only you didn't leave with her. You left early with a Czech model with jugs the size of cantaloupes."

Lois wasn't about to step gingerly around the subject. "Carrie was crazy about you, _Mister Wayne,_ but evidently you prefer less thought and more jiggle in your women." She wanted to cut him to the quick. This was personal for her. "Incidentally, that evening left her devastated, not that it matters to you. I was the one she cried to for over a month." Lois' mouth was drawn tight. Her boss' eyes narrowed on her, warning her to reign in her temper.

"Well, I didn't call to upset you by bringing up anything unpleasant in the past," Bruce deftly countered, changing the subject. "I am calling regarding last night's broadcast of _Metropolis Live._ I would very much like to talk to you about the subject matter of the episode."

"Seriously? You want to talk to me about the newest clown frenzy that's sweeping the streets of Metropolis?" She put her hand on her hip. "Why, you want to produce your own Joker doll and buy some airtime to market it during our show's run?"

Bruce didn't see the joke in the remark. "No, Ms. Lane, my interest isn't in marketing or a capitalistic venture. Let's call it an interest in sociopathic psychology."

He'd left himself wide open with that remark, and Lois seized on it. "Sociopathic psychology? So what you're saying is that you want to talk about _yourself._ This is a _personal_ issue for you, isn't it, Mr. Wayne? Need to talk to someone to air all your dirty secrets? I'm not the one you should be talking to. I'm sure you would have no problem finding the right doctor for you from the fine staff at Arkham." Lois hoped the verbal barb broke the skin. She had seen the national expose by _20/20_ on the deplorable conditions of Gotham's asylum, funded in part by the Wayne family. Naturally, their spokesperson had claimed to have no knowledge of the patients' sub-standard care until the story went public.

He smiled at her banter, and didn't let the arrows of her words hit their mark. "This isn't about my own psychology," _though God knows I've got enough dark secrets of my own to keep team of psychiatrists occupied for years._ "This is about the Joker. I think I may have some information for you that would provide enough material to fill an entire follow-up show."

Lois' ears pricked up at that. "Okay, shoot. I'm all ears."

"I think a face-to-face meeting would provide a better forum. I have to fly to Buenos Aires in the morning, so I'll need to wrap up a few business matters locally before I leave. I won't be able to meet you in Metropolis. Would you be willing to meet me here in Gotham?"

 _Oh, you'd better believe I'd like to meet you, buster. Face to face, to tell you what I_ really _think of you. "_ Sure. When?"

"I could send my helicopter out to pick you up in a few hours. I'd like to see you this afternoon, if at all possible."

"Today will work. But I can't accept your offer." _Won't accept it is more to the point._ "I'd prefer to drive myself."

Bruce had suspected as much. "Fair enough, I'll forward you the address and directions via e-mail." On the computer monitor in front of him, he was already viewing the _Metropolis Live_ website, and navigated to the contact page. "I can get your e-mail address from your show's website," he paused, testing the waters, "unless you'd like to give it to me directly over the phone."

He was met with silence.

Drawing in an audible breath, Bruce smiled at her unalloyed hostility, which was a refreshing change from the yes-men who surrounded him daily. "Well, then, website it is."

 _That's right, bucko, you can work to find what you want for yourself. Entitled jackass._ Lois looked at her watch, knowing she had quite a drive ahead of her. She would have to hit the road soon. "Does 5:00 work for you?"

Bruce smiled. "5:00 is perfect. I'll send you the location here shortly. I'll see you then."

Lois abruptly cut off the call, handing the phone back to her boss, whose expression of dismay had been replaced with approval. "Well done, Lois. You do indeed have quite a big fish hooked at the end of your pole. Reel him in, and gut him if you have to." Cheryl winked. Jackpot. She'd been trying to land Bruce Wayne as an interview since her promotion to executive producer, and she'd finally done so thanks to Lois.

Lois wasn't as enthusiastic. She shrugged off the weight of the accomplishment with a weak smile. "Well, it seems the rest of my day's activities are off the books, so I can meet with the lofty Mr. Wayne." She turned and walked away, adding under her breath, "Gotham's playboy snake."

Lois retrieved her bag, then headed downstairs to the station's coffee shop, and pulled out her laptop. After polishing off an espresso, she opened her e-mail. Nothing. She hit the refresh button several times, becoming increasingly annoyed that no e-mail had arrived yet from Bruce with directions. _What a surprise. Nothing._ She cursed him under her breath, assuming he'd probably stalled on the bio page of the site to gawk at the female field reporters, and forgot to send her directions. Just before she shut her laptop in indignation, a high-pitched bell indicated that a new e-mail had loaded in her inbox.

It was from Bruce Wayne.

* * *

Now as Lois passed the half-way mark of her trip to Gotham to meet Bruce at Skin Trade, some swanky restaurant she presumed he owned, she mulled over in her head how she got into this position in the first place. Her career had taken some interesting detours recently.

Lois had allowed herself to be sexed-up for the sake of television, hoping that her face-time in the homes of bored housewives and slacker college kids would boost her career. It was ironic that Cheryl Lazlow, a woman who epitomized female strength in the workplace, would encourage the female TV hosts on _Metropolis Live_ to perpetuate the image of women broadcasters as vapid eye candy. However, Cheryl needed her ratings, and sex was always guaranteed to sell, feminism be damned.

Lois' eight years working at the Daily Planet had long since tarnished her naive sense that truth in reporting was what counted. Instead, she learned to play the game. Few in the public cared about news, only sensationalism. The ironic twist was that to be appreciated as a journalist with a reputation for uncovering the truth, she had to have the exposure to warrant catching the eyes of other bluebloods in the world of journalism, like Cheryl Lazlow. Honed talent and a killer instinct didn't cut it anymore. You had to have exposure. A pretty face helped, so she had determined to use it to her advantage. Offend 'em now, wow 'em later was Lois' credo.

She couldn't wait until her contract of 10 shows was up. Until it was, she would do everything she could to exceed the high expectations that were upon her shoulders. She would turn her meeting with Bruce into an interview, whether he liked it or not. She'd get some dirt on him to heighten her own profile on _Metropolis Live,_ and hopefully deliver a few more personal verbal jabs in the process for her own gratification.

The rain was coming down harder now.

Eventually, it would be a very dark night.

* * *

Bruce's delay in sending the e-mail with location and directions had resulted from an unpleasant surprise.

While scrolling down the web page of contacts for Lois' e-mail address, he scanned the photos and brief bios of the crew that put each airing of _Metropolis Live_ together.

When he got to Lois' picture, he drew his breath in sharply.

Her photo had been modified.

The eyes were blacked out into pitch-dark holes, and a sloppy tangle of green scribbles had been drawn over her hair. A bright red slash of red had been drawn across her mouth.

Bruce had waited until he was sure that Lois had left Metropolis before alerting the station to the virtual vandalism perpetrated on their site. He didn't want to give the crew at the TV station a chance to detain her. The less that was known about her whereabouts, the safer she was. As long as she was still believed to be in Metropolis, it bought her time.

Once he had notified the TV station of the website vandalism, Bruce hung up the phone and studied the webpage again.

While anyone viewing Lois' vandalized photo on the website may have found the image funny, Bruce didn't. It wasn't the work of some teenaged hacker. He eyed his watch, waiting for the hour to approach when Lois would be in his sight, and under his protection.

More disturbing to him than the modified image, was the text below it.

The font of her name had been struck out.

Both above and below it, bold purple font jumped off the screen:

**JoKEr wAnTS 2 PlaY**

**StRip poKer wiTH**

**ThE QUeEn oF TArtS**

The text that followed was much worse. Her bio had been replaced with an abundance of four-letter words and sexually graphic innuendos. They crossed the line of pornographic into violently obscene and sexually perverse.

Bruce's brow furrowed. Something about this was really, really _wrong._ This seemed too personal, too crude, even for the Joker. He had suspected that the Joker had left Arkham even more damaged than when he entered, but he hadn't anticipated something like this.

His shoulders tensed. The text wasn't just a thinly-veiled death threat; it was a promise of violation and torture.

* * *

The Joker rested back with a self-satisfied smile on his face. He had given Sticks a piece of paper, with explicit instructions to find Lois Lane and deliver it to her; find her at any cost.

He imagined the look on her face, when she read the joke he had written for her.

Oh, the things he would show her.

The things he would do to her.

So. Much. Fun.

He pulled from its sheath the same Bowie knife that he had used to ravage Tangier. He caressed the blade with his finger tips, as one would a lover's face. He rolled his eyes back, and they fluttered closed in anticipation.

_I bet she's a screamer._

He licked his lips lasciviously.

_Good._

* * *

. . . . . . . .

Author's Notes for "Fresh Meat"

. . . . . . .

_I envision Lois and Bruce mixing like oil and water. She is all crass practicality while he is debonair chivalry. She really, really does not like the guy._

_This chapter not only introduces Bruce Wayne and Lois Lane officially into the story, but it begets an important question: what is the Batman's relationship to Superman? The Batman and Superman movies all operate in a vacuum: each assumes mutual exclusivity as the only superhero. But if there is acknowledgement of both Gotham and Metropolis in the same story, then it follows that Batman and Superman are aware of each other._

_Oh, they are. And they like each other even less so than Lois likes Bruce._

_For my story's purposes, there is a frosty understanding between the two superheroes: Gotham is Batman's playground, Metropolis is Superman's, and never the two shall mix. Big boys and big egos, you know how it goes._

_This is why Bruce Wayne doesn't contact Superman when he first sees the threat on the website, and why he won't contact Superman later in the story. Additionally, Bruce/Batman has no idea that there is any type of a relationship between Lois and Superman._

_Besides... if Superman swooped in and saved the day, the story would be over and we wouldn't be able to see what type of measures the Joker would resort to. That's where all the fun lies._

_-4oC, 11.04.2008_


	7. Foreshadowing

*** FORESHADOWING ***

**Chapter 7**

**. . . . . . .**

Lois barely heard her cell phone ring over the din of the radio and the rain pelting the top of her black Mustang. The wipers were now going at full-tilt. She picked up the phone and cradled it between her right shoulder and ear. "Hello?"

A nervous voice came through the line with difficulty. "Lois? It's Jimmy." The connection crackled on his end of the conversation. "Lois, can you hear me?"

"Jimmy?" She turned the radio volume down. "Hey, Jimmy, you're going to have to speak up. It's raining hard where I am, and it's tough for me to hear you."

Jimmy Olson cleared his throat. "Lois, where are you right now?"

She rolled her eyes. "I'd say I'm a few miles outside of music purgatory. I'm not close to a town that I can see, and thanks to this rain, I can't get any good radio stations to come in. The only music I can get is AM. Country music." Marty Robbins was crooning in the background about some woman named Maria out in El Paso.

"You need to get XM," Jimmy offered, grateful for this conversational tangent she had offered. He really didn't want to have to tell her what he needed to tell her, and he welcomed the distraction. He knew he couldn't drag it out, because he had to report back to Cheryl Lazlow momentarily, who was talking with a detective from the Metropolis police department.

"Can't do satellite radio. You know I'm not good with high tech. What's up? Why the call?"

 _Oh, crap._ Jimmy took a deep breath. "H-hey, Lois… um, I—I mean, we just wanted to make sure you're okay."

"I've driven in bad weather before, Jimmy."

"That's not what I meant." He swallowed hard. "Uh, Lois, someone…" He chose his words carefully. "Someone vandalized your bio on the _Metropolis Live_ website."

She shrugged her shoulders, unaffected. "So what? That's not a big deal." She'd done more than her share of stepping on toes in her line of work, and petty backlashes were nothing new to her. _Jeez, just get the IT department to fix it._

Jimmy started to sweat. "Um, Lois? It was pretty bad. They think it was the Joker who did it." Then, he quickly tried to offer a conciliatory hypothesis, to allay any concern she might have. "Or maybe it's really not him, Lois, but just someone who works with him. It could have just been some kids, you know, maybe that's all it was." He hoped that he sounded convincing, even though he could hear his own voice wavering.

The wipers swept back and forth for a few beats before she replied. "So some clown – literally, some _clown_ – defaces my bio, and that's newsworthy?"

"Well… he altered your photo. And he wrote some crude things." _Don't make me tell you what it was. Please don't ask me what it was._

Now Lois smiled. Even through the rain, she could hear the trepidation in his voice. She knew that Jimmy harbored a crush on her, and that he got flustered easily around her. He wasn't the kind to swear or use harsh language, and Lois got a kick out of seeing how much she could rattle him. He was almost as green as Kent.

"What did it say, Jimmy?" She was less interested in what was written about her than listening to Jimmy stammer and get ruffled.

"'Joker wants to play s—strip, uh, strip poker, with the Queen of Tarts.'"

Lois waited for more to follow. "I've heard worse than that."

"They think it's a threat against you."

"Who's 'they', Jimmy?"

"Everyone here at the station. The police have been notified. Bruce Wayne was the one who phoned it in."

Lois' jaw set. _What a coincidence that Bruce Wayne was the one to find it before anyone else. He was probably the one who did it._ She felt her hands tighten on the steering wheel. She hated the on-air persona she had to project, and she knew that some would see her as a floozy, but she had hoped that a man of Bruce's social stature wouldn't resort to this type of junior high-level of prank and name calling. "So 'someone' called me a tart."

"Then there was more," he cleared his throat. "Then it reads, 'Not Clubs, not Diamonds, not Spades nor Hearts, Joker's upped the ante with the suit of Tarts.'"

Lois shrugged her shoulders. _Okaaaaaayyyy. What is_ that _supposed to mean?_

"That wasn't all." Jimmy was glad she couldn't see how red his face was. "They wrote… okay, um, they wrote crude things in your bio…"

Lois was now too irked to enjoy listening to Jimmy trip on uncomfortable words. "You said that already. Just spit it out, Jimmy."

He shut his eyes hard for a moment, then read: "My name is Lois. I'm the Queen of Tarts. I'll f—fug," Jimmy could hardly pronounce the word. "Fuck you for a story, or suck your cock to get on the air. But now the Joker is cumming for me and I'm really going to get fucked."

Jimmy hoped that Lois thought phonetically he was saying "coming". Maybe it would be less lewd. Probably not.

Lois was silent.

Jimmy's hands were trembling as he traced his fingers across the computer monitor to read the last few sentences. "'My legs and my mouth are both open wide, and I'm hoping the Joker cums inside with his knives.'"

The rain started to let up a little. Or maybe Lois was so shocked by the violent pornographic image conjured up of herself that all sound seemed to recede.

_Holy shit._

_That definitely isn't something that Bruce Wayne would have come up with._

_HOLY SHIT._

She didn't know what to say. "That is absolutely disgusting!"

Jimmy cringed. "I know. It's revolting." He didn't know who actually wrote the trash, but it scared him. He was scared for Lois.

"Lois, in your photo, they colored your hair green and blacked out your eyes. There was a red slash across your mouth."

She pictured it in her mind. "So they made me a crude mock-up of the Joker."

"Yeah." Jimmy was sick to his stomach. "Lois, I am so sorry that you had to hear that. Jeez, I really am. I thought that m—you know, maybe you'd want to hear it from me instead of from the police."

A Juice Newton song crackled through the speakers in the background of her car. Lois was barely aware of it.

"Yeah. Well, yeah, I appreciate your telling me." _Jesus._ She knew that this Joker character was obviously a whack job, but she didn't realize that she would make herself the target of his attention. "Hey, I'm probably about a half-hour away from the outskirts of Gotham," she changed the subject. "I'll need to stop and get gas soon, so I'm going to hop off the phone."

For once, one of Lois' lies didn't fool Jimmy. He knew that she didn't want to talk about this anymore, and he was grateful to her for the reprieve. "Take care of yourself, Lois, okay?"

"Yeah," she said absently. Then she remembered something. "Hey Jimmy? Do me a favor and don't tell Clark about this, okay?" Kent was on assignment, and he could be as smothering and protective as Olson was. She didn't need both of them on her case like mother hens.

"Well, I guess I can keep it under my hat." Jimmy was reluctant to make that concession, but he could tell it was what she wanted.

"Thanks, Jimmy. I'll touch base after I meet with Bruce Wayne this afternoon. Bye."

"Bye, Lois." _And for God's sake, be careful._

Jimmy was terrified for her. She was on her way to Gotham.

Straight into the lion's den.

The rain had, in fact, abated, but the thick cloud cover left the sky dark. Lois ran a hand through her hair, trying to think of a way to keep her mind off of this obscene prank. She didn't have time to waste wondering if it were actually the work of the Joker. She had other things to worry about.

She decided to distract herself with her contempt for Bruce Wayne. _Focus on Wayne, Lois. Think of what a creep he is. Eyes on the ball, girl._

Her distraction didn't last long.

The radio signal was picking up stronger now, and Juice Newton had just slipped from verse to chorus:

_Playing with the queen of hearts_

_Knowing it ain't really smart_

_The joker ain't the only fool_

_Who'll do anything for you_

Lois had never given the lyrics of this song a second thought before now. To her, the song had just been the backdrop for distant childhood memories. Now it seemed to have such ominous overtones.

She changed the radio station. She found a 70's classic rock station, and tuned in half-way through Credence Clearwater Revival's "Proud Mary". She could always relax to Credence. She felt the pace of her breathing slow. Aerosmith's "Dream On" had her drumming her fingers on the steering wheel a few minutes later. Lois arched her back and took turns stretching out each arm. Some local commercials crackled through the interference of the drizzle, but she didn't bother to tune to a different station. Her spirits picked up a little when she began mouthing the chorus to "More Than a Feeling".

As Boston's song faded out, a new song overlapped with an acoustic guitar strumming. The clapping beat of Stealers Wheel found Lois nodding her head in cadence to the beat, mouthing the familiar lyrics. A sign to her right welcomed her to Gotham, proclaiming the official demarcation of the city line. She picked up her speed, and turned up the volume.

_Well I don't know why I came here tonight_

_I got the feeling that something ain't right_

_I'm so scared, in case I fall off my chair_

_And I'm wondering how I'll get down the stairs_

The first sound of the chorus passed over her lips when she cut the words short.

 _Oh, fuck,_ she thought. _Are you kidding me?!_

_Clowns to the left of me_

_Jokers to the right_

_Here I am, stuck in the middle with you_

Lois shut the radio off.

As Gotham's city center grew closer with each passing mile, so did the Joker.

* * *

 

And he was waiting for her. Eagerly.

* * *

 

. . . . . . .

Author's Notes for "Foreshadowing"

. . . . . . .

_There were three points I wanted to bring up to clarify this chapter._

_The first involves the horrifically graphic sexual image suggested by the Joker when he sabotaged Lois' biography on the website. The Joker is setting Lois up for the big hit, to so speak. Since the TV show feeds on the lurid and shocking, the Joker felt the gauntlet was thrown down for him to respond in kind. He came up with an image thick with deviant sexual suggestion, to make someone reading it cringe and recoil in disgust. That's his weapon of choice - fear. Plant the seeds of fear, through whatever means will hit the victim hardest, and the rest will follow. If you were to kick over the Joker's proverbial sandcastle at the beach, he'd bury you in the sand up to your neck and use your head for target practice as the tide came in. It wouldn't matter to him if the bullets or the water killed you. You'd still be dead, and you wouldn't be kicking over any of his sandcastles in the future._

_To my second point, I am going on the assumption that Lois Lane does_ not _know that Clark Kent is Superman's alter ego. In some stories she's privy to this secret, but not in this one. Lois asks Jimmy not to involve Clark, because she sees him as something of a meddling, hand-wringing brother; a nice guy, but a bumbling goof and a real irritant at times. Although Jimmy sometimes crosses the line into this same category, Lois dismisses it because it she knows he's smitten with her. I don't see Lois as ever having been 'smitten' with anyone in her life, not even with Superman. It's what you mock in other people because it's puerile._

_And for my third point, Lois is a driven reporter who doesn't waste time on 'girlish' pursuits like romantic pining. Although she has a fascination with Superman, she doesn't spend her time daydreaming in the car about him, or thinking about how she should run to him to make everything better when things get uncomfortable. Lois is fiercely independent, and prides herself on this trait. Besides... she has absolutely no idea just how bad things are going to get for her in Gotham, regarding the danger that lies ahead._

_-4oC, 11.04.2008_


	8. Lois, Meet Joker

*** LOIS, MEET JOKER ***

**Chapter 8**

**. . . . . . .**

The Joker had changed his mind.

The more he thought about Mizzzz Lane, the more he wanted to play with her. Now.

_Now, now, now, now, now, now, now, now, now, NOW._

He had sent Sticks out to try to track her whereabouts in Metropolis, to give her the joke he had written… a bit of bait that her sharply honed journalistic acumen would seize on, to further career ambitions. It also just happened to be something to advance his own agenda of revenge. The plan was to drop enough hints to feed her the story of a career, and watch her unravel the few tethers of Gotham's remaining legal structure with it.

But as he watched the recorded episode of _Metropolis Live_ again (and again… and again), he felt a deep longing, borne of vengeful impatience. An urge. Primal, emanating from his core. It was a sensation he was well in tune with, one that would manifest in a brilliant swath of debauchery.

As it had so frequently. And so destructively.

In his hand he held a stolen cell phone, one he had randomly selected from a box filled to the brim of pilfered cell phones and PDA's from all over Gotham. Coincidentally, it was a shiny phone.

Shiny like Mizzzz Lane.

He didn't want to wait for Sticks to make the delivery. Change of plans.

Using the same website that Bruce had only hours earlier, he got a number for the TV station in Metropolis. The receptionist transferred him to Lois Lane's desk.

_Let's see if the deck is stacked in my favor._

A perky female voice came on the line. "Ms. Lane's office. This is Cindy, can I help you?" Cindy had just been updating her Facebook page, detailing her new responsibilities with An Important News Show, despite the blatant breach of the privacy contract she'd signed. Answering the phone at Lois Lane's desk was a Very Important Job.

The Joker smiled broadly. The voice belonged to an overly enthusiastic young woman. She had to be an intern _. Perfect._ Indeed, the deck _was_ stacked in his favor.

_Goody goody._

The Joker lowered the pitch of his voice slightly. "Yes," (smack) "may I please speak to Ms. Lois Lane?"

Cindy couldn't believe how great her first week on the job was going – she was really interning at _Metropolis Live!_ Answering phone calls for someone who was on a TV show! Someone who people on the street recognized! She would have the best stories to tell back at her sorority! She would be hearing first-hand scoop on famous people!

Cindy had to bite her lip to hide the excitement in her voice, and she tried to put forward her most professional tone. "I'm sorry, Lois Lane is away from her desk right now." Cindy hoped that the caller would ask where Lois was. Name-dropping was so much fun! "May I ask who's calling?"

The Joker could tell that this fresh intern couldn't wait to spill the beans. He was more than willing to help her to do so. He affected an unsure tremor in his voice: "My name is Trent, and… I'm a new intern with GCN in Gotham, working for news host Mike Engel."

All 8 seconds of her professional posturing went right out the window. "Ohmygosh, I'm an intern, too!"

The shrill chirp in her voice almost hurt the Joker's ears, but he didn't wince because he was so amused at how easy this was going to be. He continued to feed her another line, as he played with a switchblade with one hand. (smack) "Isn't it fun interning with a TV show?"

"Ohmygosh, I _know!_ There are, like, so many stories and people that you see who are like, famous? My friends are so jealous, but I'm just so, like, _whatever!_ " It was so much fun to talk to someone else in _the business_!

"Yeah, I know!" He couldn't help but think, _You're a perfect fit for the intellectual equivalent of dog shit that show shovels out._ "Hey, maybe I can meet you sometime!"

She tossed her head. "That would be fun!"

 _Cupcake, you have no idea how much fun._ "Well, the reason I'm calling is that Mike needs me to confirm his conference call" (smack) "later today with Lois before the 11 pm broadcast."

"Oh, no! I don't think Lois can do the call? See, Lois had told me earlier? The rest of her day is full? Right now—"

This was pure entertainment for him. _Is there an IQ ceiling imposed on these interns that results in phrasing simple statements as questions? Jesus, people are getting dumber by the day. Maybe this girl and Sticks could hook up and produce the dumbest fucking babies on the planet._

"—she's on her way to Gotham!"

This caught him off-guard. _Oh, reeeeaaaallllyyyy? On her way to Gotham, is she?_

Cindy couldn't hold back any longer. "She's meeting with Bruce Wayne! You know, he's that billionaire?" Yes! She had gotten to brag to someone that the person she worked for was meeting a billionaire! This was so cool!

 _Looks like I just rolled a lucky number seven._ "Gosh, Cindy, I could end up getting in trouble with my boss if Lois is not in Metropolis later today."

Her voice changed quickly. "Oh no! Why?"

"Well, Mike and Lois are working together on a story about the…" (smack) "…Joker," he paused, "and there are documents that Mike needs Lois to look at. It's time-sensitive. Do you know where she's going? Maybe I can fax these papers to her."

"Well, I'm not really supposed to say where she's going," Cindy said with genuine remorse. Trent seemed so nice! And it sounded as if he also liked to chew gum. Cindy liked gum! They had that in common!

"Please, Cindy? I promise, all I need to get is a location, so I can find out if they have a fax machine. My job's on the line," (smack) "can't you help me out?"

Cindy thought of herself in Trent's shoes. She would die if she couldn't work at the TV station! She had to help him out! What if she were in the same position? "Okay, just don't tell anyone I told you this, okay?"

"Cross my heart, hope you die."

It went right over her head. She lowered her voice so no one else in the office could hear her. "She's meeting Bruce Wayne at 5:00 at a place called Skin Trade. I could—" Cindy wondered if she should give Trent Lois' cell phone number. She wasn't supposed to give the number out, but she had to help him – because maybe Trent was cute! She hoped he had a MySpace account she could look at. "Let me give you Lois' cell phone number, so you can check that she got the fax after you send it."

The Joker wrote down the number, grinning from ear to ear. _Ah, a crackerjack job of securing the privacy of others, thanks to Miss Cindy, who probably dots the 'i' in her name with the outline of a heart. You've got a brilliant future ahead of you with the Department of Homeland Security, kid._

"Perfect. Cindy, you're awesome-ah!"

She put a flirtatious lilt in her voice. "You're welcome!"

"Cool, okay, I'll go find a fax number for Skin Trade." He just couldn't resist: "Hey Cindy," (smack) "does it hurt to speak _and_ think all the time with an abundance of exclamation marks?"

She was still smiling, not picking up on the thinly veiled insult lobbed her way. "Huh?"

"Nothing. Thanks for your help!"

"You're welcome! Hey, Trent, do you have a Facebook—"

He hung up on her and immediately looked at the phone's clock. It read 4:15.

He dialed Lois' cell phone.

Lois picked up on the first ring. "Yeah, this is Lois?"

The Joker felt a thrill rush through him as her voice came through the line. He had to make a conscious effort to enunciate and to try to refrain from smacking his lips as much as he could. It was difficult, but manageable. For the weight of this bounty, he was up to the challenge.

He spoke with an English accent, with Cockney undertones. "Ms. Lane, I am calling on behalf of Mr. Wayne."

Lois slammed her open palm down hard on the top of the steering wheel. _Bruce Wayne, you son of a bitch,_ she thought, _don't you dare bail out or bump this meeting back._ She didn't want to admit it, but she was actually looking forward to the dinner, if only to have something else to focus on aside from the disturbing image that Jimmy had planted in her head from the website vandalism.

She exhaled long and with annoyance. "He's not canceling on me, is he?"

She was just as clipped and to the point as the Joker had anticipated her to be. He walked over to the television, where he'd frozen her face on the screen. He traced the lines of her mouth with the switchblade. "No, my dear."

"My _dear?"_ Lois' patience had run out. "Listen, I don't know what century you're living in, but no one talks to me with that condescending, sexist crap."

The Joker had to cover the phone momentarily to stifle his own laughter.

 _Feisty!_ This was fun already.

He ran his tongue over his top lip and continued. "My sincere apologies, no offence was intended, Ms. Lane." (smack) "Mr. Wayne's current obligation is running longer than anticipated. He asked me to tell you that he's changed the location for this evening, so he won't be late."

Lois rubbed her temple with the side of the cell phone. _Shit. I only have directions to that one restaurant._ "I don't have nav in my car, and I'm not good with directions." _Why am I not surprised that he's changing locations for his own convenience?_

"The location of this new restaurant will also be to your benefit, as it will shorten your drive. It's a much closer restaurant than Skin Trade, given the direction you're coming from. It will be a fairly short jaunt off the Gotham Expressway."

 _Jaunt. Jaunty, jaunt, jaunt._ He liked that word. He also liked the word cauliflower.

He continued, "Just turn off on exit three. It's a one-way road, so there's no need to turn. Take it to the fourth stoplight. Immediately on your right you'll see a red neon sign on the second floor of a brick building that says 'Rogue'. That's the restaurant. You can't miss it. The parking is immediately behind the building. Same time, 5:00." _Hmm, can I work 'cauliflower' into this conversation? Maybe I could recommend it as a side-dish soufflé._

Lois snickered in contempt. "'Rogue', huh? Well that's certainly fitting."

The Joker picked up on her hostility… evidently channeled toward Bruce Wayne. _I wonder what that's about. Should be fun finding out._

One of many secrets he wanted to flesh out of her. Literally.

Now he ran his hand along the television's screen, drawing an exaggerated smile across Lois' mouth with a gloved finger. "Should you have any questions or need additional directions, you may call me and I will be more than happy to assist you."

Lois was annoyed that she didn't have a direct line to Bruce, but his call earlier had come in through Cheryl's phone, not hers. This limey lackey was the only connection she had to Bruce. "What's your name, if I need to call back?"

(smack) "Alfred, Ms. Lane. You may call me Alfred."

She pursed her lips. "Thanks, Alfred." She snapped her phone shut and started looking for exit signs.

The Joker put that cell phone in the left breast pocket of his vest, right over his heart. He reached for a different phone and dialed Sticks.

Sticks jumped when his cell phone went off. "Yeah?"

"Our, ah, game plan has changed. Can you be at Rogue before 5:00 today?"

Sticks checked his watch. "Uh, yeah, I can get there."

The Joker cocked his head to one side at this. _If you can get there before five, it's because you never left Gotham yet to track down Lois Lane in Metropolis. Noted._ "And you still have the paper I gave you?"

He patted his coat pocket. "Yep, it's here. I put it in an envelope."

"Good. Bring it, and be there just before five. It seems Mizzzz Lane is in our neck of the woods this evening."

Sticks smiled. He hoped that the Joker would ask him to do more than just give her the letter, whatever it was. Maybe the clown would let Sticks give her a little personal attention, one on one. Lois Lane was hot, and he'd love to get his hands on her.

"Dude, I'm there!"

 _Dude?_ The Joker cut off the call.

He decided that there would be another vacancy in his crew shortly.

He hoisted a gym bag over his shoulder, heavy with tools and… toys. Gliding down the hallway with the stealth of a panther, he shouted in a stentorian tone: "Men, let's pack up and roll NOW!"

All of the Joker's crew were in the house, within earshot, waiting for the call to action. The sound of heavy feet thudding down the hallway echoed on the floorboards, which creaked in protest. They came armed with guns, crowbars, brass knuckles and bottles of beer. Beer bottles, once emptied, could make potent weapons when broken. And emptying the bottles provided them with the liquid courage they needed to keep level heads around the Joker.

As the gang members packed into the windowless service van parked at the curb, they exchanged glances. This was one of those occasions when they didn't even know what gig the Joker had in store for them. He was playing his cards close to the chest, and he hadn't told them what his game plan was.

History had taught them that those outings usually ended up being the bloodiest.

* * *

 

From the van, speeding down the street of a neighborhood with boarded up crack-houses, the Joker made another phone call.

Vinnie Maroni, half-brother to the late mafia don Salvatore Moroni, picked up the other line. "Maroni."

"Good afternoon, Maroniiiiiiiii," the Joker taunted.

Vinnie stiffened in his chair. He involuntarily gripped the tumbler of brandy tighter in his hand. "Joker." _Aw, fuck me. It's the clown. What does this fuckin' nutjob want?_ "Why are you calling?"

"I'm calling to request that a close and personal friend of mine gets special treatment at your restaurant-ah. Today. She'll be arriving at five."

Maroni didn't blink. That didn't leave him a hell of a lot of time. "So what's the drill?"

The Joker appreciated an industry equal who could get right down to business. "Mizzzz Lois Lane will be expecting to have dinner with Bruce Wayne. When she arrives, show her to your private room. In the back."

 _Fuck._ Moroni closed his eyes. _How much of a mess is this freak going to leave for me to clean up this time?_ "What happens when we get her in the back room?"

The Joker's smile was dark. "We'll be there by then. You can leave that to me."

Moroni stared at his phone long after the call had ended. _Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck. I hate that fuckin' clown._ He looked over at the whore who was smacking her gum and checking her nails. He had just paid her, and they hadn't even gotten down to business yet.

He shook his head and cursed under his breath. He turned his palms upward on the table. "We're gonna hafta reschedule our date for another day, doll."

She shrugged in indifference. "I'm keeping the cash, just so you know." She pushed the chair back and headed for the door. He followed her, opened the door for her, and tried to plant a kiss on her cheek. She dodged it, and winked at him with a smile. "See you at our next date, Vin."

Vinnie sighed in defeat, then closed the door to the office. He looked over at the stain on the carpet that hadn't quite come out. It was from the last time a 'close and personal friend' of the Joker had been brought to the back room.

 _That poor girl is going to have one hell of a night ahead of her._ He shuddered. _Toots, you have no idea what's coming. I hope for your sake you never find this place._

Like most predatory criminals, Moroni lacked in remorse and empathy.

But right now, he genuinely pitied Lois Lane.

* * *

 

And Moroni's suspicions proved to be right.

The Joker _did_ leave a mess for him to clean up.

* * *

Throbbing. Her head was throbbing, and she felt thick.

Random images flashed in her mind, disjointed and grainy.

Something had happened to her, but she couldn't remember what it was. Someone was saying her name, as if coaxing her out of a dream. It was a man's voice. She was aware of a feeling of nausea swelling within her.

She had been driving. Somewhere. There had been music.

A meeting. She was supposed to meet with… someone.

A hand. There was a strong, steady hand behind her neck, supporting the weight of her head, which was tipped back. Her eyes fluttered, as she fought to force her consciousness to the surface. She heard her name again.

A soft touch. A second hand, this one brushing her cheek, caressing her face along her lips and jaw line, while the other cupped the back of her head. What was going on?

The voice was deep. Comforting, one she could trust.

She tried to speak but only a sibilance was formed, rough hissing not yet forged into words. Her tongue felt heavy. She slowly opened her mouth. She forced the air from her lungs, but only a weak noise came out. "Who?"

The hands held her stable, providing the anchor she needed to recapture her equilibrium. The voice said her name again.

Softer, this time. Closer. Warm breath near her own mouth.

It felt as if lips had lightly brushed hers.

"Lois."

Now, the voice was right by her ear, someone's cheek against her own. She could smell the musky smell of… a man. It stirred something in her.

She was becoming more aware of her own body. It felt as though she were lying down. Then she felt the weight of someone – this man – very slowly press himself against her. Warm breath was on the side of her neck, just below her ear. He slowly ran his fingertips from her face, down her neck to her shoulder. The hand then slid behind her back and gently pulled her in closer.

This felt good. This felt really good, an intimacy she hadn't known in too long. Her limbs were heavy. Was this a dream? She tried to return the embrace, but she was too weak to lift her arms to do so.

Lips brushed her cheek, and she heard her name again. The voice was low, and heavy with desire.

Then, came the kiss.

On her mouth. Soft, tender. She instinctively responded and raised her mouth meet his. He parted her lips with his tongue. The kiss was deep. Sensuous, awakening in her a pleasant hunger.

He breathed consciousness back into her, literally.

"Lois."

She let out a light moan, and her lips curled in a hint of a smile.

"C'mon, sweetheart."

 _Who was this?_ Notes of familiarity hung in the air, but something was still foreign. Where had she heard that voice?

"Wake up, sweetheart." Low, steady timbre in the voice.

Then, a sound of a kiss... but none fell on her lips. Her sense of smell began to sharpen. Notes of acid and something foul began to register.

"Sweetheart."

She was going to meet… _Bruce?_ Was it Bruce who was holding her?

"Sweet tart."

Who had she talked to earlier?

"Sweet. Tart."

She couldn't quite place the voice. She swallowed, and tasted the rank breath that had been breathed into her.

"Queen Tart."

Something was changing… a sharpness in the tone. This wasn't a dream.

"Queen. Tart-ah."

Her eyelids opened with difficulty.

"Queen of Tartssssssss."

She tried to focus her eyes on the source of the sound. The hissing. Was it a snake? It looked like a tongue was darting out… but not from a snake. From a man's mouth.

There was a blur in front of her of black and white. Red. Definitely red, in some places.

"Can you see me, Queen of Tarts-ah?"

Lois blinked several times as the face came into focus.

_What the hell-?_

He stroked her face again, softly, watching her eyes as the dawning comprehension took hold.

Lois felt her mind sharpen up quickly. She recognized the face. The scars. _Oh, Jesus Christ._

His smile broadened as her eyes widened. The terror was etched in her face. He then brought his hands to the sides of her face, holding it steady so she couldn't look away from him.

"You're awake now, my little Queen of Tarts." The taunting was salacious. He wanted her awake. So she could enjoy it as much as he would.

He let her look at him, his desire to begin the game growing, as her fear compounded.

"We're going to have a grand ol' time tonight… sweet. Tart-ah." Then he leaned in closer, a blackness shining in his eyes. "Just. You. And. Me."

He narrowed his eyes and slowly nodded his head. "I'm going to give you an exclusive that will make the other networks positively weep. With. Envyyyyyyy."

Lois opened her mouth to scream.

Before she could get out a sound, the Joker smothered her mouth with his own, crushing her under the weight of his kiss, his tongue diving deep into her mouth.

It was a kiss heavy with lust.

Bloodlust.

* * *

 

. . . . . . .

Author's Notes for "Lois, Meet Joker"

. . . . . . .

_The Joker has the talent to jump from one personality to another, when the situation calls for it. He can slip into the vernacular of a young media intern or a refined English butler as easily as he slips on a pair of his purple gloves. Adaptability is a trait that the Joker and the Batman share, and it's what makes them all the more powerful. And dangerous._

_The Joker would be a quick study in Gotham's blue-blood circles. He would know who Bruce Wayne was, perhaps even skulking in the crowd occasionally as Bruce arrives for galas and benefits, observing and taking in someone whose social standing and clout could be a very attractive target. I imagine the Joker would read the occasional article about Bruce Wayne, ears pricking up whenever he heard his name mentioned on TV. In one of these telecasts, Alfred would have been in the background, perhaps being interviewed in passing. Just one or two clipped sentences spoken by the butler into the camera would have been all the Joker would need to mimic him._

_Rather than explain in detail how Lois came to be on the floor with the Joker hovering over her, I felt that a jarring plotline transition directly into Lois' situation would lend the disorientation that Lois herself felt to the reader. As she wakes from her mental fog, the transient line of dreams and reality wavers, facilitated by the Joker. He isn't brutalizing her as she's waking up; I don't see that in him. Not_ yet _. Instead, he's seducing her, bringing her into a fold of confidence, tapping into her sexuality as well as his own. What better way to terrorize someone than to draw them into an emotionally intimate situation, only to pull the rug out from underneath them?_

_-4oC 11.04.2008_


	9. Shall We Begin?

*** SHALL WE BEGIN? ***

**Chapter 9**

**. . . . . . .**

Lois started to choke. She could barely breathe for the Joker smothering her with his animalistic kiss.

If you could even call it a kiss. It felt as if she were being feasted upon… the lion having downed the gazelle, tasting its insides with the long reach of its tongue, fueled by a rapacious hunger. It wasn't sexual. It was a pure violation.

Yes, that was it. He was tasting her – tasting her fear, her flesh, and even her thoughts. He knew exactly what type of terror was coursing through her mind; what probable scenarios she thought lay ahead of her, the carnal violations that certainly were to come.

He drew out the kiss, to let her simmer in her own fear.

It made her taste good. _Reaaaalllllyyy goooooood…_

Then he drew back far enough to be able to look into her eyes again. Her pupils were fully dilated with horror, nearly eclipsing the hazel of her irises. It appeared that the only colors in her eyes were black and white.

Just like a cartoon. This made him laugh.

Lois gasped for breath. She would have screamed but she didn't have enough air in her lungs to do so. She had come close to drowning in a lake at age 11 when her cousin had held her head under water, and this was reminiscent of that frightening scene. Her heart was pounding, and she was trying to take in air to catch her breath, but the weight of the Joker on top of her made it difficult to expand her chest.

Tears leaked out of the sides of her eyes and ran down her cheeks to her ears. She was trying to wrap her mind around the scenario, and how she had even ended up on her back in some dark room with a clown-faced psychopath atop her. It was so disjointed. It had to be a nightmare.

When she saw the Joker draw his face in closer to hers again – for what she assumed would be another smothering kiss – Lois knew that this was no nightmare.

This was happening. This was real.

That's when she found her scream.

It was loud, and it was long.

And it pleased him.

His smile expanded, and stretched the span of his face. Then, the decibel level of her screech was nearly matched by his own cackling. He so enjoyed the sound of her fear, and the sight of her cowering beneath him that he couldn't contain his joy any longer.

This outburst startled Lois into silence. She froze with her mouth open, staring slack-jawed at the Joker as he guffawed his enjoyment. When he saw her staring up at him with her mouth agape, white greasepaint and red smeared upon her face and mouth marking the claim he had staked upon her, his laughter heightened into outright howling.

It was all the more comical to him because of his vantage point. Lois didn't know what she was lying on top of.

Not yet.

His eyes began to glisten, as he teared up from the peals of laughter that wouldn't stop. He sat upright, and brought the back of one of his gloved hands to the corner of his eyes, to wipe away the tears newly forming.

Lois still had little control of her faculties, but tried to will her arms up to push him farther away from her. She raised her hands up to the Joker's chest, and pushed with all her strength. He wouldn't budge. His weight was no longer on her, but she still didn't have the leverage she needed to move him.

His tipped his chin down, watching her hands push feebly on his chest. He made no effort to stop her futile defense attempt. Instead, he just grinned at her in mockery. She didn't have the strength to move him. Lois' brow knotted in frustration. Even if she had all her strength, it likely wouldn't have been enough to topple the man who sat looming over her. Although not the most physically imposing man she had ever come across, he was larger than she, and he had an iron resolution. He wasn't going anywhere against his will.

He knew it, and he wanted to make sure that she knew it, too.

He had positioned himself right where he had wanted to be. _Advantage, Joker._

He raised an eyebrow. "Are you trying to move me, or are you trying to feel me up? Usually I like to get to know a girl a little better" (smack) "before I let her get to second base." He winked at her.

At this insinuation, Lois tried to recoil her hands when he quickly seized both of her wrists. He slid his hands down hers, to grip her fingers. He brought the backs of her hands up to his mouth.

(smack) "I think we need a formal introduction, so I won't feel like such a harlot if I let you… _grope_ me." His grin turned up in one corner.

With an embellished air of propriety, he spoke: "Pleased to meet you, Mizzzzzz Lois Lane." He kissed the back of her left hand, never taking his eyes from hers. "But I think that 'Queen of Tartssssss' is a much more fitting name."

He lowered his mouth to kiss the back of her right hand, then paused, measuring her fear.

_Oh, let's turn it up a notch, shall we?_

He flipped her hand over to expose her open palm. He broadly licked it, then brought his tongue to a point as he ran it slowly between the crux where her index and middle finger joined. Lois gasped as much at the physical sensation as the pornographic insinuation.

"Stop it!" She tried to wrench her hand free but he held it with resolve.

He rolled his eyes and grimaced in an exaggerated show of embarrassment. " _Jeeeeeesh,_ I shouldn't have been so forward without introducing myself first. My bad." He leaned in forward, eyes dancing with mischief. "You can call me–" he paused and tilted his head to one side, "–well… do I really need an introduction?"

_Joker._

_Oh my God._

Fighting not to say his name out loud brought the reality of the situation crashing down upon her. She felt herself get dizzy, and her eyes started to flutter.

"So you're weak with desire for me already?" He positioned her hands back on his chest where they had originally been. "See? Now that we've been introduced-ah… now that we're all… _friendly-like_ with one another, I don't feel so shy about you having your way with me." Another cackle.

The sound snapped her mind back into focus again. _Did he just invite me to take sexual liberties with him?!_ As she tried to withdraw her hands from him again, her right hand passed over his heart and felt something in the pocket. Her eyes drifted to where her hand lay.

"Oh, I think you discovered my little trick, _my dearrrrrrr."_ Something about that sounded familiar, but she couldn't place it.

He reached into the vest pocket and pulled out the shiny cell phone. He flipped it open, and pretended to make a call.

With an English accent. Light on the Cockney tones.

"Yes, Ms. Lane, if you proceed to Rogue, brick building on the right at the fourth light, Mr. Wayne will meet you there at 5:00."

He watched her face as the realization set in. _He_ was the one she had spoken to earlier. _He_ had given her directions to Rogue.

The Joker had orchestrated the detour. Bruce had no idea where she was. No one did.

Only _he_ did.

Lois screamed again. And again. The Joker rolled his eyes back and closed his lids. He savored the sound as one would a vintage Bordeaux. He could feel the blood accelerate, rushing through his veins and visibly flushing the skin that wasn't obscured by clothing or paint.

Yes, this was what he had waited for.

He opened his eyes, and looked down at her. Lois noted that his lids were only half-open, as if he were inebriated. No, as if he had just taken a hit of a drug, and the delicious sensation were hitting him full-throttle. He was genuinely _enjoying_ her terror, knowing that he could spend as much time doing God-knew-what to her, and no one could stop him.

As if reading her mind, he forged the words that verbalized her thoughts. "No one knows you're here, Sweet Tart-ah." She felt sick to her core. Then he smirked. "Well," (smack) "no one who would raise a finger to _help_ you, anyway."

He leaned in, and lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. He pointed to a door on the far side of the room. "See that door?" He looked back at her to make sure she understood him. She nodded in accedence. "Well," he licked his lips, "there are _men_ just outside that door. Men with… _appetites."_

He brought his hand up and took her chin sternly. "If you were – by some million-to-one chance-ah – able to break free of my grasp and make it to the door, I don't think that I could…"

He chewed on the inside corner of his mouth as his eyes fell to her lips. "… protect your _honor_ from _those types_ of scoundrels." He smacked his lips, and rolled his eyes upward, as if trying to recall a lesson. "You see, when you work with the criminals of Gotham," he locked eyes with her again, "you're bound to end up with some bad apples in the bunch."

He nodded his head in the direction of the door. "You know," he ran his eyes down her body to below her waist, then back up again to face her. He mouthed the word, " _Rapists."_

Fear seized Lois again. The shrieking began before she could stop it.

Unfazed by her screams, he continued in a calm voice. "So you see, Queen Tart, you're actually _safer_ in here – with me." He licked his lips. "I guess that makes me something of a _protector_ , doesn't it?"

She tried to push herself deeper into the floor, to distance herself from him as much as possible, but something was blocking her. It was then she became cognizant of the fact that she wasn't quite flat on her back. Her legs were on the floor, but her upper body was slightly propped up against something, low to the ground.

He continued with his line of reasoning, bringing a hand up to cradle his own chin in thought. "If I'm actually your protector… then you're _beholden_ to me, aren't you?" He lowered his hand to her face and traced her lower lip with his thumb. "I think that means that you owe me some special _favors,_ since I'm the only thing that stands between you and gang rape. Wouldn't you agree?"

Lois jerked her face from his hand, her mind churning out horrible scenarios. _Oh God! What is he going to do to me? Is it worse than rape? Is he going to let those men at me anyway, regardless? This can't be happening! This can't be happening…_

With agile alacrity, he sprang to his feet. From her low viewpoint, he towered over her.

The Joker looked her up and down, from head to toe, one more time. The only light in the room was streaming through a window with a broken yellowed shade, and the moonlight cast an eerie blue glow on him, particularly on his face. Especially the part of his face where the white paint hadn't been rubbed off. Despite the dim light, she could see him take inventory of her. The smile was gone from his face. His expression was analytical, one of a butcher sizing up a slab of meat for the first cut.

He removed his long jacket, and casually tossed it to the side. Then he looked her in the face again. He slowly pulled the glove from his left hand, and let it drop to the floor. He peeled off the glove from his right hand, and considered it by rubbing the texture between his fingers. "Good leather is difficult to find." He raised the glove to his face and smelled it. "The hide needs to be supple and soft. Soft skin makes all the difference…" The grin crept back at the corners of his mouth. "I love the feel of soft skin on my own."

Lowering his voice just slightly, " _Your_ skin is soft, Queen of Tarts." This was just too easy; lobbing sordid insinuations, allowing them to hang in the air, then letting her mind draw its darkest conclusions.

"Don't touch me! Please don't!" The tears were streaming down her face. The Joker watched her without a movement, knowing that his unwavering stance only underscored the upper hand he held in the scenario that was about to play out. He took a few steps backward slowly, while rolling up his sleeves to the elbows. Lois shut her eyes tightly and turned her head, covering her face with her hands. Her screams ebbed into sobs.

The Joker was a man who derived pleasure from his… _work._ And he had work to do. Work on her.

He tipped his head down to his right shoulder, cracking the tension out of his neck. Then a tip to the left.

Now, it was time.

_Let's begin, shall we?_

* * *

The gossip rags loved to follow Bruce Wayne.

Whenever possible, they had paparazzi staked out at the swankiest restaurants in Gotham, some even boldly perched outside the establishments that he owned, in hopes of catching a glimpse and a few photos of the billionaire playboy.

Security at Skin Trade was tighter than at most restaurants, because it was one that Bruce owned. Personnel were scrutinized before being hired, to minimize Bruce's exposure to tabloid sharking. There was always some hungry reporter waiting to document the happenings in Bruce's life, turning uneventful occurrences into scandals, however inconceivable the twist would be.

There were no such 'journalists' at Skin Trade tonight.

Pity, that.

Had any been there, they would have witnessed the unfolding of events, which – initially seeming mundane and routine – left even the other diners with roused curiosity about Bruce's abrupt exit. A tabloid vulture easily could have turned the departure into something ripe with projections and salacious hints.

And no matter how preposterous a story they would have concocted, it wouldn't have approximated in shock, nor in horror, the actual reason Bruce left with such haste.

Not by half.

* * *

At 5:00 on the dot, Bruce Wayne had strolled casually into Skin Trade. He was immediately escorted to his table, and offered a bottle of wine. He politely waved it off, picking up a menu to consider appetizers for their table.

At 5:03, he placed an order for Maryland crab cakes and ahi tuna with ginger dressing.

At 5:11, he checked his watch.

At 5:17, his concern mounted, thinking of the lurid text and picture on the website.

At 5:23, he called Cheryl Lazlow at _Metropolis Live,_ and requested Lois' cell phone number. Cheryl, being far more concerned with Lois solidifying the interview with Bruce Wayne than she was with her reporter's safety, was all-too willing to give out Lois' number.

At 5:25, Bruce dialed the phone number.

At 5:26, he nearly toppled the maitre d' as he rushed from the restaurant.

At 5:29, his Murciélago cornered hard on a downtown street, breezing through an intersection.

At 5:31, he phoned Commissioner Gordon and informed him that he had suspicions of foul play involving a missed appointment with a Metropolis reporter.

At 5:42, he pulled into the underground garage of Wayne Enterprises.

At 5:56, clad in the suit of his alter ego, Bruce emerged in an older prototype military vehicle designed by Lucius Fox. It had been a precursor to the vehicle that Gothamites would recognize and colloquially refer to as the Batmobile.

At 5:58, he sped toward the east side of Gotham, known to be the haunt of degenerates who had found new strength in numbers, in the year since the mayor and police commissioner had publicly decried Batman as a fugitive.

At 6:02, Batman weighed the possibilities that Lois Lane was still alive against the infinite ways the Joker could choose to inflict wanton harm.

* * *

At 7:32, Lois shrieked when she discovered what she had been propped up against on the floor.

At 7:51, Lois shrieked again, when the knife's blade pierced her skin for the first time that night. It would be one of many.

* * *

 

. . . . . . .

Author's Notes on "Shall We Begin?"

. . . . . . .

_To set the tone for the evening, the Joker deftly routes Lois' mind into a state of vigilant fear. He plants seeds of terror with insinuations and suggestions of sex and of sexually based violations that could befall her. He understands that the threat of rape can be more terrifying to a woman than the threat of death. By letting her know just how close she is to falling victim to such an attack - and that he is the only person standing between her and that fate - he makes sure that she knows that the balance of power is undisputedly tilted in his favor._

_Notice that the Joker doesn't threaten to assault her himself, but warns that it would come at the hands of his men. There's a reason for that..._

_I chose to detail Bruce's actions in Skin Trade with a time-table format, to allow the reader to be the reporter surreptitiously spying on Bruce in the restaurant, documenting his movements as a journalist would._

_-4oC, 11.05.2008_


	10. So She IS a Screamer

 

*** SO SHE IS A SCREAMER ***

**Chapter 10**

**. . . . . . .**

Through her sobs, Lois heard a click. It came from the Joker's direction.

Lois' mind raced for an association to the sound… and found one that she didn't like. _The cocking of a loaded gun._

She whipped her face in the Joker's direction, putting her hands down on the floor to scoot herself away from the threat. What she saw wasn't a gun. Blinking away tears that had obscured her vision, she focused on what he was holding.

It was a video camera. The wave of relief she felt was almost immediately replaced by dread.

 _A gun would be fast, easy. He has absolutely no intention of making this fast or easy. Jesus Christ, is he actually going to_ film _what he's going to do to me?_

The video camera beeped, and a small green light began flashing. The Joker studied it and spun of one the dials. "Now-ah, this shouldn't be too foreign of an experience for you," (smack) "being a public figure who has appeared on filmmmm before."

His voice was higher in pitch than it was previously. Lois couldn't gauge if it were pulled taut with tension, or heightened by unfettered anticipation.

The unfolding of events would prove it was the latter.

He waved a hand in her direction, tipped his head to her and asked, "Are you ready for your close-up?" In the dim light of the room, she could see his teeth cut a line across his face as he smiled a wicked grin. Then, he pushed a button, and the blinking light went solid. He hoisted the camera in the air at head level, and spun it around to face himself.

"Good evening, ladies and gentlemennnnn-ah, welcome to the first broadcast of _Gotham Live."_ He began pacing in a jagged elliptical circle in front of the room's door, alternately raising and lowering the camera, keeping it aimed at his face. "For those of you who saw the most recent episode of _Metropolis Live,_ we think that this show will pique your interest."

He smacked his lips, flicked his tongue briefly outward then pulled it back inside his mouth. The grin was back. He removed a hand from under the camera, and brushed back the hair from his face with it in a display of mock vanity. "It seems that yours truly was the focus of the last _Metropolis Live_ … _news broadcast_." He infused the words with venom. "The only problem is…" (smack) "…the story was a bit – shall we say – " He rolled his eyes upward to the right. " _One-sided_ in its viewpoint. Didn't show the full truth. I think that Metropolis – and other viewers – actually have an interest in a. Brutal. Portrayal." (Smack) "Of the truth, that is."

He backed up to the door. "Joining me here this evening – to help set the record straight – is none other than _Metropolis Live's_ own Lois Lane." With that he spun the camera in Lois' direction. "Say hello, Lois."

Lois said nothing. She stared in the camera's direction in confusion, still trying to piece together the scene that was unfolding. _Does this lunatic think he's actually putting together a show for broadcast?_

The Joker kept the camera aimed in her general direction, not bothering to hold it level. "Oh, gosh. It appears that tonight's guest is having trouble reading her cue cards. Maybe it's just too dark in here. Let's turn on the lights to help her see, shall we?"

He reached backward toward the wall and hit the light switch. Lois anticipated a dim improvement to the current low visibility. To her surprise, she was momentarily blinded. The bare bulb in the ceiling light socket flickered on, but she could instantly feel the heat of larger spotlights aimed in her direction from around the room, shining upon her from a myriad of angles. She brought her arm up to shield her eyes from the brightness, casting her eyes down toward the floor as she tried to blink them into adjustment.

"Now, now, Sweet. Tart!" The Joker chided her from outside of the camera lens' frame. "The nice folks at home won't be able to see your lovely face. Lower your arm. _Now_."

She did as she was told, keeping her chin down, eyes on the floor. She didn't want to give him the satisfaction of looking into the camera. As her eyes acclimated to the bright lights, something caught her eye in the far-right of her low field of vision.

Something on the floor next to her, only a few feet away…

The Joker continued his narration, as he zoomed in on Lois' face to the point of its filling the entire camera's frame. "There she is, the one-and-only Lois Lane, coming to you from Metropolis' own sister city of Gotham."

Lois slowly turned her head to follow her line of vision. _Wha—is that a_ hand _on the floor?_

"But no matter the city, no matter the subject matter—"

Lois' stomach roiled. _Is that an_ arm _?_ She turned her head further.

"—Lois Lane proves that she's got the goods and the _talent—"_ The Joker pulled back on the zoom to get a wider angle.

She turned around further and saw what she had been lying against: a body.

A dead man shot three times in the face at close range.

"—to knock 'em dead!"

Her eyes widened and she jumped backwards. She had been propped up on this corpse, the barrel chest acting as a pillow. Her head had been only inches away from what was left of the man's face. There were jagged holes where three bullets had blown through the skin like paper as they shredded the skull behind it. The man's eyes were open. Blue eyes seeing nothing. Certainly not the one with the blown vessels that had stained the white of the sclera completely blood-red. His mouth had been frozen open in a last-moment scream of protest.

It was Mooney's body. Not quite twenty hours had passed since the Joker had shot him. Rigor mortis would ebb to its final stages soon.

Lois screamed. She brought her hands up to her mouth, as if to stifle a gag. " _OH MY GOD!"_

The Joker ensured that the camera's field of vision was taking in the entirety of the scene. He clucked his tongue at her. "Lois, Lois, _Lois._ You _looked_ like the type of girl to sleep around in order to" (smack) "climb the corporate ladderrrr… but I didn't want to _believe_ it. Yet here you are, caught lying on the floor with some random, _faceless_ man. Tsk tsk, did you even know his name?"

She closed her eyes shut tightly and shook her head from side to side. "Oh, Jesus! Oh, Jesus!"

"Mmm… yeah, I'm pretty sure that _that_ wasn't the guy's name." The Joker walked over to Lois, who crawled backward awkwardly to distance herself from the corpse and her tormentor. He ran the camera down the length of Mooney's body. "Wow, _Mizzzz Lane,_ you really did a _number_ on this guy." The camera zoomed in on Mooney's face. The resolution was so fine, the Joker noted that he could actually count all six of the fly's legs that was walking upward across the dead man's cheek to start sampling on the gore near the man's eyes. Another fly walked up Mooney's tongue and out of his mouth. _Technology sure has come along way since I was a kid,_ the madman mused.

The Joker spun the camera on himself again. He smiled at the camera, as one would trying to gain the confidence of a child.

"Now I ask you, _gentle viewing public-ah,"_ His tongue appeared at the corner of his mouth. "Do you really think that you can believe the _news stories_ that are fed to you by a man-eating TV tartlette?" (Smack) "Do you think that there might be…" He rolled his eyes shut. "…a _whisper_ of a chance—" He opened his eyes that were now stained black with malice. "—that perhaps some of the last broadcast of _Metropolis Live_ missed the full truth?"

He looked away from the camera in Lois' direction, then back again. His smile was fading. "I was portrayed as a silly clown that runs amok playing _pranks_ on people. I was made to look like a _joke._ " His eyes narrowed, and his monologue to the camera proceeded. "And now I understand that there are actually companies out there that are making _dolls_ in my image, as wholesome family-fun _stocking stuffers_ for the rug rats on Christmas morning." He grimaced, then swung the camera back over to Lois.

Now it was sinking in.

Looking past the camera to the Joker's face, she could see unalloyed hatred burning, his visage pulled into an angry contortion. She was beginning to understand fully why she was here.

As the camera zoomed in on her wide eyes, he continued. "It seems that – thanks to shows like the one Mizzzz Lane recently anchored – I have been a bit… _misunderstood._ "

 _Misunderstood._ The word churned over in her mind.

"Mizzzz Lois Lane and I will be signing off for a little while" (smack) "but we'll be back later with the quality of footage that you've come to expect in your _news showsssss_. Footage that will _shock and awe you._ "

He spun the camera back one last time on himself. "So don't go too far, loyal viewers." He cocked an eyebrow, and curled his lips back into a broad grin. "There's _so_ much more to come."

He shut the camera off, and walked over to a corner of the room.

As Lois' eyes followed him, she couldn't get the word 'misunderstood' out her mind. Then, the childhood lake scene flashed back in Lois' mind, when her cousin Kevin had held her head underwater.

That hadn't been a boyish prank on his part, as much as it had been _payback._ Her 12-year old cousin had been standing on the dock at the lake with some of his friends. She had run up behind him and pulled his swimming trunks down to his ankles. She wanted to embarrass him and knock him down a few notches in his friends' eyes.

Because it would be fun.

Now, with greater clarity than ever before, she saw the consequences of that scene play out in her mind. The actions that unfolded manifested in two distinct parts:

The first was her cousin pulling up his swimming trunks crimson-faced (while his friends pointed and howled in laughter) to restore the dignity that had literally been stripped from him.

The second was her comeuppance, when he had dived into the lake after her to teach her a lesson.

A two-fold result, played out in that order.

Cause and effect. Action, reaction.

Now, as she watched at the Joker, she was reminded. Reminded of one of the first lessons she had learned as a journalist. Distill the facts, get to the truth. Simplicity.

And the simple fact was this: for all his posturing, for all the theatrical distractions of make-up and violence, for all the psychoses that warped his mind…

…the Joker was _a_ _man._

And men had their pride.

_Oh, shit. Oh, shit, you've really done it this time, Lo._

She had participated front-and-center in a TV program that had not only trivialized the man's destructive capabilities and public threat, but perpetuated the misconception that he should be the subject of open derision and levity-driven mockery.

Lois understood now that he viewed her as the circus ringmaster, directing the public to the circus freak tent that _was_ the Joker.

From his point of view, she had played along in the public opprobrium of a psychopath for ratings.

_Oh my God._

She understood what was now to follow.

Action, reaction. In two parts. Just like Kevin.

He would first restore the dignity that he felt _she_ had helped to take from him.

And then he would levy his punishment upon her.

The Joker stood from his crouched position, placing something in the front pocket of his pants. He walked to the door and turned the knob. He made no effort to crack the door a small amount, but instead threw it wide open to show Lois that his threat earlier hadn't been hollow.

Two men wearing clown masks were standing out in the hallway. Both of them tilted their heads to look around the Joker at her. Although she couldn't see their eyes behind the masks, she knew that they were leering at her. The Joker handed one of them the video camera. "You know what to do with this."

Then he leaned forward as one of the men said something in a hushed tone. The two masked men looked back at Lois, one of them elbowing the other. Low laughter filled the hallway. The Joker looked back over his shoulder at her, a knowing smile on his face. "Why _yessss…_ I will have to take that into con-sid-er-a-tionnnn."

He ran his tongue around the outside of his lips for her to see. Lois drew her breath in sharply. The Joker kept his eyes on her, stepped back into the room and closed the door.

He walked slowly over to where Lois sat on the floor. She looked around for someplace to scamper off to, but her choices were scarce. The room was almost bare. Aside from Mooney's corpse in the middle, there was a wooden chair off to one side by the window with the broken shade, and a dingy mattress on the floor. She shuddered to think what that was used for. Instead, she stood up weakly and backed away from him.

"My dear. Sweet. Tart-ah." He kept his stroll slow, casual. "Where do you think you're going?"

She felt the wall against her back, and ran as quickly as she could down the length of the room. _"Stay away from me!"_

He started to giggle. "But I _can't_ stay away from you. We're doing a _show_ together." He held both hands outward toward her. "We have a… a professional _relationship_ to uphold."

"I don—I don't want any part of this," she stuttered. "Please, I don't know what you're doing, but please just let me go." Her words rang hollow and flat in her own ears. She knew they wouldn't get her anywhere, but she had to try.

The Joker stopped in his tracks. His smile broadened. "That's _right_ , Queen of Tartssss, you _don't_ know what I'm doing. And isn't it _fun_ not knowing? Not knowing what comes next? That's a trick I learned from watching _Metropolis Live._ It's all about the shock-factor. If you give too much away" (smack) "then there's no _reason_ to keep the folks tuning in."

He advanced on her again. "Things are just so much more… _entertaining_ when you can't anticipate what comes next. And all I want to do is to entertain you. You are, after all, my guest tonight."

The back of Lois' leg hit the chair, and she momentarily stumbled. It was all the time he needed to lunge and close the distance instantly. He pinned her shoulders hard against the wall, leaning into them with all his weight until he saw her eyes tear up and mouth twist in pain. She was trying hard not to scream.

He found it oddly… _cute._ It made him laugh. "Such a big, brave girl you are, Queen of Tarts."

Lois groaned as she felt her shoulders start to bruise under his hands. She met his eyes and tried again: "Listen, I'm really sorry if you felt that we embarrassed you with our show. Th- that wasn't what we meant to do."

He cocked his head to one side, and mimicked her like a parrot. "That wasn't what we meant to do." His voice was shrill. He stepped in closer and lowered his voice. "Oh, no?" He smacked his lips. "Well, Mizzzz Lane, what was it that you _did_ mean to do with your broadcast… _hmmmm_?"

His eyes bored into hers. Her mouth felt dry. _What do I say? Confess that we wanted to use him to reel in bored viewers? To gain an edge on Access Hollywood and GNC's Entertainment Central for our time slot?_ The truth didn't sound like it would win her any favors with the Joker. She said nothing, her eyes searching his for a modicum of compassion.

She found none.

He licked his lips. "That's what I thought. The way I see it, you pimped me out to the viewing public-ah, twisting the view of what I am and what I do to fit your agendas. You chose to use me as a _whore_."

He stepped closer to her. The pressure on her shoulders abated. Instead of drilling them into the wall behind her, he changed his grip to a vice claw.

"Do you know what it _feels_ like to be used as a _whore_ , Sweet Tart?"

The insinuations were thick. His face was mere inches from hers so she couldn't see the door behind him. She thought of the threat that lay on the other side, and what intentions his men had for her. All the color drained from her face.

The Joker's voice dropped to an ominous pitch. "Well, _Lois_ , you're _going_ to know what it feels like. To be a. _Whore_."

Those who had worked along side Lois Lane knew that she was tough, she was uncompromising and she didn't scare easily. Those same people wouldn't recognize her now.

In a small, timid voice that seemed wasn't her own, she spoke. "I'm sorry." She shrugged her shoulders as a solitary tear fell from her eye and rolled down her cheek. He followed it with his eyes. She blinked and again offered a feeble apology. "I'm so, so sorry. I'm sorry."

The Joker raised his thumb to catch the tear before it fell from her face. He brought the finger to his mouth and licked the tear off, as one would lick a wound. Then he looked down into her eyes again through a few errant tangles of his hair.

He cupped her face in his hands, and slowly… slowly shook his head.

"No, you're _not_ sorry."

The Joker stepped forward, and to Lois' surprise, he embraced her. A full-length body embrace. Not rough, not with excessive strength but almost… tender. He stroked the back of her head with one hand, and held his other arm around her back. The right side of his jaw rested against her right temple, and she could feel the raised relief of his facial scars, the ones that announced to the world who and what he was. She tensed up.

"Shhh, shhh," he cooed. If Lois didn't know any better, she would have thought he was consoling her, to assuage her fear. He tilted his head down to take in a long whiff of her hair, then he nuzzled her just below her ear.

His breath was hot on her neck. The vibrations of his voice, even as soft as it now was, reverberated through her.

"You're not sorry now." Then his embrace tightened slightly and his lips brushed her ear with a whispered promise:

" _But you will be_."

________________________________

Since receiving word from Bruce Wayne that Metropolis reporter Lois Lane had apparently gone missing, Jim Gordon had been on the phone with the Metropolis police department. Although the _Metropolis Live_ website had been taken down temporarily, MPD had forwarded him screen shots of the vandalism and threat against Lois. It had kept him busy, with his detectives already on the phones hunting for leads with uniformed officers currently out on the beat.

Commissioner Gordon frowned at his cell phone. It was ringing, but the caller ID indicated that the incoming call was coming from a blocked number. He sighed heavily. Now wasn't the best time for an anonymous call, but he chanced that it might be pertinent to the case at hand. He sat down behind his desk and accepted the call. "Gordon."

Chance had fallen in his favor.

A low raspy voice crackled through the phone. "What progress have you made with the Joker's latest threat?" Gordon knew the voice of the Batman anywhere. He looked through the windows of his office to make sure that none of the other officers were in earshot. It wouldn't look good if he were caught collaborating with the very man that he had publicly decried a year earlier.

Silently, he was thankful for any help he could get. As long as no one found out, he would always be willing to accept assistance from the Batman when offered. "Not much yet. We're working mainly from the threat on the website."

The Batman furrowed his brow. "I think that's the wrong approach. I think we need to work the angle from the voice mail message."

Gordon blinked. "You know about that?" He didn't anticipate he'd get an answer, and he didn't. The Dark Knight often exhibited prescience that Jim couldn't explain. He pinched the bridge of his nose under his glasses. "We're combing casinos and the back rooms of clubs… any place where there would be opportunity to find overt or covert gambling, based on the reference to cards and poker."

The Batman's eyes narrowed. "The verbiage on the website didn't say poker, it said _strip_ poker."

"And you think that's a marked difference?"

"For the Joker, yes." He yanked the wheel of the car hard, and nearly took out a mailbox on a corner. A few homeless men pointed with mouths agape. He was picking up speed, visions of the horrible death that Rachel Dawes endured a year earlier coursing through his mind.

He continued. "Gambling establishments might turn up something, but I think there's another industry that might give us a better lead."

Gordon bit the line. "And that industry is?"

"The sex industry. Prostitution and adult lounges. I'll let you know if I get something solid." With that he cut off the connection abruptly.

Gordon sat there mute, holding the phone to his ear, willing the connection to resume. When it inevitably did not, he closed his phone in resignation, right as Detective Murdock knocked on the doorframe of his office. Jim rarely closed the door. He looked with weary eyes at the figure in the doorway. "Anything?"

Murdock's mouth was drawn tight. "Sir, something just came through. I think you need to see this."

Gordon stiffened behind his desk. "What is it?"

"There's a video feed that's being broadcast on the GPD intranet. It's from the Joker."

________________________________

The Batman played the sound byte again from Lois' cell phone voice mail. It was the message that had sent him out of Skin Trade with alarm.

The voicemail message wasn't Lois'.

The Joker had recorded one of his own.

" _You have reached Lois Lane's cell phone. But she's going to be unable to return your calls for quite some time." (smack) "So you can leave a message if you really want to, but I wouldn't recommend it-ah. Lois has got a big night ahead of her. She's going to be a busy girl, yessiree. We're going to see what kind of a song and_ dance _she comes up with when_ she's _the one on the hot seat. Let's see what happens when she_ stripssss _down to her core and_ bares _her inner-most thoughts and feelings. Things might get a little messy, and a little dirrrrty. So sorry, kiddies. We'll have to rate this venture 'X', so absolutely no children are allowed. That means you,_ Batman." _(smack) "I may not have gotten to play with Mizzzz Dawes before I blew her to Kingdom Come, but I'm_ definitely _going to plaaaay with Mizzzz Lane. When she's screaming my name, I'll be sure to send you the sound clip for your collection, m'kay?"_

There were two crime dons who dominated in Gotham's underground sex industry. One was Vinnie Maroni. The other was Sergei Kruzynski.

The Batman floored the accelerator, and headed for Maroni's newest entertainment center: Flesh For Fantasy.

________________________________

As the Joker stood there holding Lois in his embrace, the soft-spoken threat still running through her mind, panic set in.

Pure, undiluted panic.

It overrode her reasoning to assuage the madman however she could with apologies. It overrode her good sense not to antagonize him further.

It was born out of the strongest of instincts, survival.

Imbued with a burst of speed, Lois pushed the Joker away from her to shoulder's length. Although the next motion was executed with great celerity, the scene seemed to play out in slow motion. Lois brought her knee up hard to the Joker's groin. As her knee came up, she saw that his face did not register surprise, nor did it register that he was bracing for the hit.

He knew what she was going to do, and he was going to let her do it. There was actually a faint smile at the corners of his mouth.

As if he were _daring_ her to do it.

She hit her target square, and he reflexively doubled over. The noise he emitted sounded at first like a groan… but then it segued quickly into laughter. Peals of laughter. She pushed him aside to run by, and brought the point of her elbow down hard in the middle of his back to drive him to the ground. She bolted for the door, which had no lock. In her panic she threw the door open and ran outside.

Somewhere in the back of her mind, a voice told her that there was a threat in the hallway. She didn't register what it was until it was right in front of her.

She ran directly into a hulking goon wearing a clown mask. "Well, lookee what we got here." He grabbed her roughly by the shoulders. "Goin' somewhere, doll?"

She kicked him sharply in the shin, and he released her shoulders. "Bitch!" She only got a few steps further when a second masked man clotheslined her at the neck. Lois went down hard, on her back, the back of her head hitting the floor with a resounding smack.

The first man groaned in pain, rubbing his leg. "Awwww… fuckin' _BITCH!"_ He grabbed her by one arm, and the second man grabbed her by the other. They dragged her back into the room where the Joker's laughter had hit a crescendo, her legs dragging on the floor, kicking wildly at anything she could strike.

They released her roughly, her head striking the floor a second time. They stood above her, hovering, but their faces were turned to the Joker, awaiting instruction. He waved them off. As they skulked out of the room, the first man looked back at Lois once more and smiled behind his mask. _Bitch, if the Joker doesn't give to you what you got comin', I sure as hell will._

They closed the door behind them, leaving Lois with the Joker.

"You know. _Sweet. Tart."_ He licked his lips and walked over to Lois. "You-ah, really shouldn't have done that." He smiled down at her. "Very _poor_ decision on your part."

Lois lay stunned, prostrate on her back. Her vision was fuzzy, and she was coughing from her windpipe having been struck. Her eyes watered, but she could see that he was registering no trace of the attack, as if she hadn't done a thing to him.

As if he didn't register pain like a normal man would.

The Joker's smile broadened to a grin filled with mischief. " _Incoming!"_

With that he jumped up high above Lois, feet together. Her eyes widened as it registered that he was going to jump full force on her solar plexus. At the last moment, he widened his stance and came down hard with his feet landing on either side of her waist. Then he kneeled down quickly, straddling her. Again, he had her pinned to the floor.

He leaned over to brush some hair out of her face, so she'd be treated to an unobstructed view of her tormentor. She heard the click of a switchblade, and saw him bring it up from his pants pocket. The harsh glare from the numerous spotlights illuminated the blade, which she could see was stained with either rust or blood.

Although it wasn't likely that any knife of the Joker's went long enough unused to collect any rust.

"Queen of Tartssss, it looks like this evening will be taking a bit of a _detour_. I had intended on giving you a little more _time_ … to help you get _adjusted_ to your surroundings, but I can see that you're a woman who likes to get _down and dirty_ as quickly as possible." (smack) "A real 'wham-bam-thank-you-ma'am' type, eh?" He raised an eyebrow.

The Joker brought his face right down to hers. "In a manner of speaking, I see you're not into foreplay. You just want to get _fucked_ , don't you Sweet Tart?"

He roughly grabbed her mouth, and licked his lips. "Say, just where _did_ that pesky little knife go?"

Lois felt the blade cut fast and wide down by her waistline. She could feel the blood start to pool. The fear heightened the pain. She closed her eyes and shrieked.

The Joker tipped his chin to look down at his knife's work. He gave a nod of a approval, and then slid his tongue into Lois' mouth, biting at her lower lip as he withdrew.

He then slid his mouth to her ear, ran his tongue along her earlobe, and bit it. Not hard enough to draw blood, but hard enough to hurt. Hard enough to perpetuate her shriek.

Despite Lois' screams, her voice couldn't drown out his whisper: "Thank you, Lois. Thank you for being a screamerrrrrrr. I'm going to enjoy this. All. The. More."

________________________________

. . . . . . .

Author's Notes for "So She IS a Screamer"

. . . . . . .

_It goes without saying that the Joker is a sadist with a sick sense of humor. Propping Lois' unconscious body on top of Mooney's corpse not only served to scare the bejezus out of Lois, but it brought him a good laugh as well. Sort of like a kid who puts a snake in his teacher's desk to watch her scream._

_I believe the TDK scene when the Joker tells Rachel about his scars offers a very key glimpse into his psyche: remember how Rachel kept turning her head to look away from him? He was relatively gentle in directing her focus back toward his face. He didn't shout at her, like he did at Brian (the Batman wanna-be) when he was filming him; he didn't hold the knife to her mouth the whole time like he did with Gambol, gripping her head with force; from what I see, the Joker doesn't treat women with quite the same brutality that he does men._

_(But wait - didn't the Joker give Rachel a shove out of a high-rise window? Yes. But not to kill her. He let her fall because he knew the Batman would go after her. His intention was to challenge the Batman, not to kill Rachel. And if she had died, it would have been immediate, not a drawn out torture.)_

_The Joker knew that Lois was going to knee him in the balls, and he did nothing to stop it. He easily could have broken her nose preemptively, or in retaliation afterward, but he didn't. When she was dropped back on the floor in The Room, he didn't kick her mercilessly, or take a sledgehammer to her head, as with Tangier._

_Did he cut her? Yes. Is he making her feel pain? Absolutely. But he is not brutalizing her. There is a difference between hurting someone and tearing them apart._

_When the Joker told Lois she'd know what it felt like to be a whore, it could indicate that she'll know what it feels like to be exposed and used, not necessarily meaning it in the traditional sense of the term._

_Likewise, when he says to Lois, "you just want to get fucked", it doesn't necessarily mean that's what he's LITERALLY going to do to her. This is a man who sometimes speaks in metaphors. If you found yourself with the Joker on top of you wielding a knife - taking sex out of the equation - you're still pretty much fucked, right?_

_-4oC, 11.05.2008_


	11. Coins and Swallows

 

*** COINS AND SWALLOWS ***

**Chapter 11**

**. . . . . . .**

Despite the closed door, Lois' screams easily carried out into the hallway.

The two masked men standing outside the door had remained dead silent, not talking to each other, so as to hear everything they could from inside the room. The floors were not carpeted, and the acoustics were favorable to eavesdropping.

It had likely been a master bedroom at one time; now the members of the crew simply referred to it as 'The Room'. It was the only room in the crack house with a door. The Joker needed one room into which he could retreat to formulate his plans of chaos and malicious destruction, away from the eyes of others. Everyone knew that The Room had no lock, as if the Joker were daring anyone to enter it.

No one had taken that dare. Everyone stayed as far away from The Room as they could.

But right now, the two men who stood guard outside it were as close as any of the gang had been to actually entering. It was the lion's den, and Very Bad Things seemed to happen when someone other than the Joker was shoved inside.

Someone, like a taxi cab driver who'd lost his bearings and mistakenly driven in front of the house while the crew and the Joker were within sight.

Someone, like a loud-mouthed drug pusher who got high testing his own product and boasted to an entire pool hall that he could kick the Joker's raggedy clown ass.

Someone, like an overly ambitious journalist who helped perpetuate a mockery of a ruthless psychopath.

Lois hadn't been the first outsider to be brought into The Room.

But the odds were, when she was brought out again, it was going to be in pieces. The others had been.

None had met the same fate, but all had been removed with the assistance of plastic trash bags.

The sounds from within died down. The two men in the hallway held their breath, and listened as best they could, wondering what terrors the rabid clown was exacting on his victim.

There was hushed silence.

Then, Lois whimpered. The Joker laughed.

The first man smiled under his clown mask at the sound.

The second man cringed, and prayed silently that death would find the young woman quickly.

________________________________

The Batman sat in his parked vehicle, which as of yet had gone unnoticed. It lay out of sight behind a trash compactor, positioned to allow a line of vision between the hulking green metal of the bin and some errant trash cans. He hadn't seen Vinnie Maroni come in or out of Flesh For Fantasy, but he'd taken photos of every man who'd entered or exited through the side alley door _without_ looking over his shoulder. The high-rollers and powerful caste of Gotham needed their base desires fulfilled, too; yet this upscale fetish club still wasn't the sort of place at which you'd want to be spotted if you were CEO, a Congressman or a loving father of four.

Only the criminals walked in and out with their heads held high. They had nothing to lose, no reputations to be sullied from frequent visits to an S&M club.

The photos that the caped vigilante snapped were loaded into the on-board computer that had a covert tap into the satellite feed used by the GPD, which allowed him access not only to the database of Gotham's worst violent offenders, but also to the FBI's ViCap program as well. He had collaborated with Jim Gordon two years ago to establish this illegal data feed, even though it would mean time in a federal prison for Gordon if the dispersal of privileged government information were ever brought to light. The Batman had not coerced him into the arrangement, it had been at Gordon's insistence.

He watched as mug shots and lists of known associates flashed on the monitor before him, waiting for the match to Maroni to flicker on the screen. Nothing yet.

Suddenly, a small white light blinked in the lower right corner of the vehicle's instrument cluster, near the communication management system. A satellite feed was being sent to him directly from Gordon. The decryption program whirred, then a video flickered onto the second monitor.

The Batman drew his breath in sharply as the Joker's maniacal grin cut a jagged line across the screen.

He tensed, forcing his faculties to sharpen themselves to a razor's point. He had to watch. He had to see what the others would miss.

The video started out in very dim light, unsteady as the Joker wielded the camera himself. The Batman noticed immediately that some of the clown's make up was rubbed off on one side of his face, revealing the dark pink of the scar along one side of his mouth, and the human flesh that refuted the belief held by the superstitious that he was a demon incarnate.

Then the camera spun and landed on a figure propped up in the middle of the floor. A female figure. When the lights came on, the frame briefly burned to black as the camera adjusted itself. It found its focus on Lois Lane.

His jaw tightened when he saw her face. Part of the Joker's blood-red paint had stained the area around Lois' mouth, and a large patch of white greasepaint covered the better portion of one side of her face and her chin. The Joker had gotten up close and personal with Lois for his face paint to have rubbed right off his face and smeared onto hers. There was only one way for that to have happened, and the Batman recoiled at the thought of the Joker violating Lois with what had surely been brutal kiss.

His mind recalled parts of the voice message the Joker had recorded. _I'm_ definitely _going to plaaaay with Mizzzz Lane…We'll have to rate this venture 'X'…_

Her eyes were wide with disorientation and fear. When the camera panned back, it revealed that Lois had been resting against a body. She screamed and the camera advanced, filling the frame with the gore of the dead man's corpse.

Then, the Joker's promise that more was to come.

The promise curdled The Batman's blood.

He ran the video again. And a third time. Searching, evaluating.

Despite being on the lam, he remained obsessed with unlocking the mystery that _was_ the Joker. The ugly, brutal truth was that the Batman was better at predicting what type of destruction the Joker would wreak than anyone else.

He had an advantage - his mind and the Joker's worked alike.

Two brilliant minds warped by tragic circumstances and driven by unrelenting need. A need to dive deeper and plunge further into the basalt abyss of fear, each seeking to conquer it in himself for the purpose of forging it to his own agenda:

For the Batman, to shackle the beast that lay in wait at the gates.

For the Joker, to unleash it.

He thought of Harvey Dent, and an epiphany chilled him: The Batman and the Joker were like two sides to the same coin, inextricably linked, yet forever at odds.

It was this bond of fraternal damnation that enabled the Batman to understand the Joker's moral poverty and decaying conscience.

As he watched the video, as he listened to the clown's poisoned tongue, as he gauged the frenetic tension in the outcast's voice… he gained clarity. He sensed what was to come. The madman was going to reinstate himself above all others in Gotham as Someone To Be Feared.

The scope would be vast, and it would be brutal.

The Batman reached for his phone, and dialed Gordon.

Tonight, Gotham would play host to a nightmare straight out of hell itself.

________________________________

On the other side of Gotham, Agnes Welch ran her arthritic hands over her lap. She demurely pressed the gray wool of her skirt over the knobby protuberances that were her knees, her legs badly atrophied from lack of use. Her purse rested at her hip, snugly tucked between her body and the window of the bus.

She had waited a long time for this trip. A long time indeed.

Her life had not been an easy one. Born shortly before the Great Depression, she knew from the start of life what it meant to go without, helping to raise five younger siblings while her parents scrounged the streets and alleys of Gotham for jobs and for hand-outs of food. She had married into a loveless marriage at the end of the second World War, to help secure some standing for her own family. She had borne eight children, and had buried two of them. She'd worked her entire life, even for several years after being paralyzed from the waist down at age 57 when a drunk driver broad-sided her Buick. Agnes had rarely traveled, and had seldom taken a vacation in her long, unhappy life.

She looked much older than her eighty-odd years.

Yet she sat on the Oak Grove Retirement Home bus with a tear of joy in her eye. Most of her dreams had long since withered and passed, never to be realized, but there was one left that was still within her grasp.

Agnes had longed to see the famed swallows of the San Juan Capistrano Mission in California.

It was almost the time of year when the birds would make their annual migration down to Argentina, an event she had only read about and dreamed of since childhood, wishing to escape her own smothering life just like the birds escaped to another hemisphere.

And now, she was standing at the threshold of that dream. She was set to depart for Gotham International Airport, along with several other Oak Grove residents, to catch the red-eye for their 4-day trip to the land of Pacific palm trees. She would also see her youngest son for the first time in seven years, and three of her grandchildren. One of them she had not yet even held.

It was going to be the trip of her lifetime. It was made even more special by the TV camera that was rolling outside the bus, the warm-faced reporter beaming into the lens as she narrated the human interest story that was Agnes Welch.

Before being helped onto the bus, Agnes had smiled with a child's wide eyes into the camera and up at the statuesque reporter that towered over her. She had spoken of her life-long dream to see the swallows at the cliffs. Gotham Cable News wanted to close their broadcast that evening with a feel-good story that proved that dreams _did_ come true, even for an old woman who had waited a lifetime. Gotham's future looked bleak, but the news station could still broadcast stories of hope. They were needed now more than ever. Gotham's White Knight had been dead and buried a year now, the Batman had gone rogue and no one charismatic figure had stepped in to fill the gaping void.

Gotham was starving for hope. Any story of a fulfilled dream brought comfort.

Agnes watched as the reporter outside the bus reviewed her notes, and recorded a few takes reading an abridged summary of her biography. She felt a hand on her shoulder, and she looked up with tired eyes. Barb, the Home's kindly event planner, smiled down at her. She had been instrumental in bringing Agnes' story to GCN's attention, knowing that this trip was the culmination of a lifetime's worth of hoping for the fragile woman. "This is a big day, isn't it, Agnes?"

Agnes smiled broadly. "Yes. Yes it is." She turned her head to the window again. _Yes it is. A long time coming._ For eight long months, she had placed a sticker of a bird on the recreational room calendar as each day passed, marking the countdown to this trip. Eight months of planning, a lifetime of waiting.

The sun had long since dipped below the horizon, night had descended, and the day was almost over. But not just yet.

Agnes watched as the bus driver loaded her wheelchair into the cargo hold, then closed the door with a heavy thud. Unbeknownst to her, it was requested that her wheelchair be the last item loaded, so she could be the first one off the bus at the airport. The Home wanted to make sure that her dream was respected with the gravity it merited. A second TV crew was waiting to film her when she was wheeled up to the terminal's gate.

Barb gently nudged Agnes' arm. "Wave to the camera, Agnes."

Agnes turned her head, smiled her broadest smile, and waved in the direction of the camera. Out on the lawn, the camera crew and the reporter returned her smile and waved back. The cameraman, head still bent to the ocular piece, gave the thumbs-up sign that he'd gotten the footage.

The bus driver climbed up the stairs and took his seat. He swung the doors shut, craned his neck back, and hollered with a spirited wave to the passengers behind him. "Who's ready to go to California?"

Barb rested her hand upon Agnes'. "Agnes is!" Agnes smiled and closed her eyes. She loved the name California, and the dreams it embodied for her.

The bus driver turned the key in the ignition. The engine sputtered its familiar protests, which were usual for the older bus. All the residents were accustomed to its rattles. It was old, like they were.

Then, there was a popping noise. Much louder than it should have been.

Agnes didn't hear it. She was already lost in her dreams of the birds coasting upon the winds through the warm Capistrano valley.

And then, with a deafening roar, the bus exploded.

________________________________

. . . . . . .

Author's Notes for "Coins and Swallows"

. . . . . . .

_How much must it sicken Bruce/Batman to know how similar he is on so many levels to the Joker? For all intents and purposes, these are two men whose similarity in traits could make them brothers, in a manner of speaking. Both are brilliant, resourceful, misunderstood, live on the fringe, and are driven by obsession... divided by a very fine line of cross-purposes. The Joker could see from the start how alike they were, and he had to destroy Batman's life to make him see it, too._

_-4ofCups, 11.05.2008_


	12. A Blacker Shade of Pitch

*** A BLACKER SHADE OF PITCH ***

**Chapter 12**

**. . . . . . .**

Gordon nearly jumped out of his shoes when his cell phone began to vibrate. With erratic breath he took the phone out of his pocket and saw that a blocked number was phoning him. He had been waiting for the call. He flipped open the phone. "Gordon."

The vigilante's voice was gruff. "Lois Lane isn't the only one in danger. He's going to go after the citizens of Gotham tonight as well."

Gordon had feared as much. He looked over the top of his glasses around the elevator lobby to ensure he wasn't within earshot of anyone. "Do you have an idea of who else he's going to target?" Gordon wondered if the mayor was in the Joker's sights again. Maybe prosecuting attorneys or judges. The names of the influential and wealthy churned through his mind.

The Batman surprised him. "It isn't going to be someone of high visibility. It won't be a public figure. He's already got that with Ms. Lane as his hostage. He wants to terrorize, and to do that he's going to kill someone who is already powerless. He wants to show that he has no mercy, no remorse."

Gordon began to understand, and nodded. "Someone that the people would relate to, feel pathos for."

The Batman closed his eyes. "He's going to start a panic. It's quite possible he'll kill more than one person as the catalyst."

Gordon's stomach dropped. He didn't like the sound of that. "Catalyst? Catalyst to _what_?"

"A second attack. The first will be relatively small in scale, but it will shock and sicken the city. That will lay the groundwork for the second attack. That's where the casualties are going to mount quickly."

Gordon felt his heart pound in his chest. "What are you thinking he's got planned?" _As if it's possible to know the plans of a psychopath._ Jim's cynical inner dialog couldn't be held in check.

"My assumption is that the first attack will be executed with such brutality it will spur the citizens to either cower inside their homes or flee the city."

Gordon had learned that the Batman's assumptions usually proved to come to fruition. He was beginning to see how the events could unfold as the Batman described them. "So he's counting on people trying leave the city?"

"Yes. I think he's planning to drive them in panicked throngs toward the train and bus depots, the expressways and the airport. If he can focus the crowds into contained areas, he can hit again."

Gordon's face went white. "He'll start a panic so he can set up countless people like ducks in a shooting gallery." The faces of his own wife and children came to mind. He felt light-headed.

"Gordon," the Batman exhaled loudly into the phone. "I can't help the Gotham Police with this one. This is as far as my assistance can extend. You've got to get your best out there combing the streets to pick up any lead they can get. Focus your energies on protecting the people of Gotham. I'll do what I can to find Ms. Lane and the Joker."

Jim pushed his glasses back up in place. From the cold sweat pouring down his face, they had slipped from their resting place. "I'll sound the—"

The Batman had cut off the call. Again.

The bell of the elevator snapped Gordon back into focus. When the doors opened, Detective Murdock stood before him, his eyes filled with alarm. "Sir, calls are flooding the 911 lines. A bus just exploded at a retirement home a few minutes ago. A GCN news crew was on site filming a story about some old woman and a trip..."

Gordon heard nothing beyond that.

And so it had begun.

________________________________

The bus was quickly engulfed in a fireball, twisted metal and burning rubber having been blown outward, scattered across several square acres. Thick, black smoke billowed upwards, almost imperceptible against the black of the night sky. Angry orange flames crackled and licked the side of the building, scorching several nearby trees.

The TV news van had been blown onto its side, thrown several car lengths away. All of the news crew and the reporter had been killed, their bodies strewn like rag dolls in hideously contorted positions.

No one on the bus had survived.

Unseen amidst the carnage, a man in his late-twenties was crouched across the street behind some bushes, holding a video camera. He recorded the explosion. He caught the ensuing rain of fire and gasoline that fell to the ground. He filmed the people running out of nearby buildings screaming. He zoomed in on their faces, capturing the anguish and terror.

He ran up to the wreckage like everyone else. No one noticed him, for the war zone that had been the Oak Grove parking lot.

His camera took everything in. He captured all of it. Even some of the charred bodies of passengers that landed on the pavement.

Then, in the distance, the first of the fire truck and ambulance sirens wailed. _Time to bail._ Before shutting off the camera, he focused on a charred, mangled wheelchair that had been blown out of the cargo hold of the bus. It had belonged to a woman named Agnes Welch, who had dreamed of seeing the swallows of San Juan Capistrano. But he would never know that, and wouldn't have cared if he did.

All he cared about was that his job was successful, and the cameras had been rolling.

And the Joker would be pleased.

For one last shot, he swung the camera upward, catching the fluttering of what appeared to be large shards of confetti from the blackened sky. He followed one rectangular piece as it twirled and spun, caught on gusts of wind buoyed by the heat of the flames.

It was a playing card, one of hundreds that had exploded into the air like candy from a piñata. The card landed face up, but upside down, next to the charred wheel chair. He stepped in closer, and he focused on the devilish face of the joker card.

Then he shut the camera off and returned to his base, confident that the footage would satisfy the clown.

________________________________

It sounded like something metal had dropped on the floor. Lois screamed again.

Outside in the hall, Curtis broke the silence, snickering as he elbowed Jones. "Boss's givin' it to her _good_."

Jones said nothing. His own stomach was in knots, and his gut threatened to betray him. He eyed the bathroom down the hallway, in case he had to make a frantic dash to heave up the contents of his stomach.

Jones was sick from dread and self-reproach. The stifling clown masks didn't help; the foul stench of cheap rubber and paint was enough to overcome him. As long as there was an outsider in the house, the masks stayed on. House rules.

He rested his head against the wall behind him. _My God…what have I gotten myself into? How did it get this far?_ Jones swallowed hard. _How far is this going to go?_

Low whispering from inside The Room. The Joker's words were too hushed to be decoded.

Bored with the lull in vicarious entertainment, Curtis reached down and pulled up his pant leg, to get a better look at his shin. A sizeable lump was forming where Lois' boot had hit with force. "Would you fuckin' look at the size of that bump?" he whispered harshly. He massaged his lower leg, sucking his breath in through gritted teeth, wincing in pain.

Jones sized up the goose egg forming on his colleague's leg, and smiled behind his mask. Jones had come to loathe the cretin that Curtis was, and thought the brute had gotten what he deserved. Still, he couldn't let Curtis know it. The Joker didn't look favorably upon dissention in the ranks. He offered a neutral, "Yeah, looks like it hurts."

Curtis stood up again, exhaling his unrest, staring straight ahead into nothingness. "I wish he'd just finish up with the bitch, so we can have her, like he promised." He turned his head to look over at Jones. "I get her _first._ "

Jones didn't share his cohort's enthusiasm for rape, nor for any type of violence against women. It had actually pained him to stop Lois from trying to escape when she had burst out of the room, but he couldn't very well have let her get away. His own neck would have been on the block for that trespass. In a moment's snap judgment, he felt that sticking his arm out was the most passive way to stop her in her tracks. He didn't want to strike her if he could help it; let _her_ run into _him._

Jones had been a career criminal, mostly petty burglary jobs with a few bank robberies thrown in here and there. He'd done a few rounds in prison, so he was no choirboy. However, he did draw a line – he could not stomach intentionally harming a woman; the years of his youth were spent watching his father wale on his mother, and he saw no honor in that. He found it despicable. He assumed his values must have been a product of his generation as much as his childhood; at age 45, Jones was now the oldest man in the Joker's crew. It genuinely unnerved him to see the nonchalance with which the younger men in the house seemed to view brutal assault and even rape. _The apathy of youth. Gotham really is going to hell in a hand basket._

Ironically, Jones perceived there to be an accord on this point between himself and the Joker. Jones had thought that the Joker shared his belief that violence against a woman was beneath contempt. _Honor among thieves,_ he thought as he shook his head. He had witnessed the Joker brutally kill a number of men, but he had never seen him harm a woman; he'd never ravaged a random prostitute for the sport of it, nor had he sliced up a woman in any of the banks they'd hit. In this day and age, that seemed to be a rare trait among the scum of the city, where unchecked misogyny was commonplace.

But now as he stood in the darkened hallway, Lois' muffled cries escaping from The Room, Jones had to reassess.

The Joker _was_ harming a woman.

And it sounded as though he was taking tremendous pleasure from doing so.

Jones' blood ran cold. _I didn't sign up for this. This isn't how it was supposed to be._

There was nothing that he could do to stop the assault, and he knew it. All he could do was listen impotently outside in the hallway.

Another one of the Joker's cackles wafted up from under the door.

Jones fought the insistent nausea. He checked his watch. Wallace had probably rigged the C4 to go off under the bus at the Oak Grove Retirement Home by now. In another hour, Darnell would be at the tollbooths at the Gotham Expressway, shooting with his semi-automatic at random drivers while Kosaczyk filmed. Lundgren, Hobbs and Lucas would be at the airport, trying to wrangle up a 747 to blow up.

It was a bad night to be in Gotham. The Joker had a point to prove.

With nothing else to do but keep himself company with his thoughts, the most pressing concern sprang to the forefront of Jones' mind: the body count of the Joker's "surprises" was mounting quickly.

One could say _exponentially_.

None of the others in the house saw what Jones had seen; they lacked both the vantage point and the acuity to see it.

None of them saw that the monster they worked for was actually becoming more savage.

But Jones saw it.

Jones had been in the Joker's service since the beginning, a few years back. As a result, he had been something of a witness to… _What would I even call it? An evolution?_

Or a devolution.

The Joker was becoming… something different than what Jones had known at the start.

The genius of his designs hadn't changed. His appetite for destruction hadn't abated.

But the _drive_ was changing. The Joker was becoming much…

_angrier._

Since escaping Arkham, Jones had marked that the Joker's brooding moods seemed to last longer. His bouts of manic mirth were fewer, and the seething dark stretches were manifesting in acts of violence that Jones had never seen in his life. First, there had been the decapitation of the taxi driver, head sawed off with a hunting knife. Next came the evisceration of Tangier in front of the entire crew. Then there was the low-ranking drug lord that the Joker had kidnapped and skinned alive a few months back. Last night, he'd put three bullets in Mooney's head. And then with Sticks earlier this evening…

…the acts of brutality were no longer contrived just to inspire terror, nor just to foster an atmosphere of chaos.

No, they were serving a purpose. They were serving to satisfy the dark _need_ that the Joker had, to fill a void.

A void created by the absence of the Batman.

Without an apt rival… the Joker was… unsatisfied. Unchallenged. Unappreciated.

Resentful.

Few in Gotham had seen the Batman in the last year. In the eyes of the public, he was now _one of them._ The shadowy Rorschach splash of a bat illuminated high on the clouds over the skyscrapers of Gotham had long ago been snuffed out. Aside from the night when the Batman briefly appeared – the same night when the Joker had later brutalized Tangier – no one had seen him.

Crime had proliferated. The numbers of the underground scoundrels had swelled.

It approximated the vision that the Joker himself had initially set forth – a city on the verge of being ruled by chaos and crime.

But the vision was incomplete. The Batman was missing.

It was by accident that Jones happened upon this revelation. One night about a month back, Jones had gone up to the roof of the house for a smoke. He hadn't seen the Joker standing there in the darkness until his tinny voice, almost rusted from minimal use, crackled from behind him. Jones had nearly pissed himself.

"He's ah… he's not around. Anymore."

The Joker wasn't looking at him as he spoke. His face was tipped upwards, looking for the spotlight call sign to herald the presence of the Caped Crusader on the streets. None was to be seen.

Jones wasn't sure how to reply. He knew exactly whom the Joker was referring to, but he didn't dare name him. He coughed uncomfortably. "No, I uh…" he ground the cigarette into the pebbles at his feet. "… I guess he's gone underground somewhere."

The Joker never turned to face him. He just kept his eyes skyward. Searching. In the moonlight, he appeared... otherworldly. The white greasepaint on his face had an unearthly bluish cast to it, set against the kohl that stained the skin around his ocular bones, punctuated by the whites of his eyes. Though there was no trace of malice in his expression, his countenance still appeared demonic. Absently, more to himself than to Jones, he mumbled, "Not around. He won't come out. To. Play."

He stood like a lone boy on a playground, ball and stick in hand, searching wistfully for an opponent to share in the fun. None would come.

At the time, the exchange had seemed absolutely bizarre to Jones.

Upon later reflection, almost pitiful.

Now, it seemed ominous… a harbinger that the dams of pent-up violence would inevitably crumble and drown those in his path.

Jones was one of the few to understand that the Joker didn't view the Batman as his nemesis, as much as he did an object to be teased and led on a chase; the cat to his mouse. The Joker had thrived on the perpetuation of The Hunt.

Only now, there was no one to hunt him. That had to feel like…

Abandonment. Betrayal.

Perceptions that had the power to push an already warped mind to even deadlier ruminations, fueled by wrath.

As Jones' mind turned the situation over and over, he shifted toward Curtis' direction. When he did so, his jaw dropped.

Curtis had stuck his hand inside the waistband of his own pants, and to Jones' disgust, was stroking himself. Jones nearly gagged audibly at the sight of Curtis masturbating to what surely must have been thoughts of sexual violence involving the kidnapped reporter on the other side of the door.

Jones turned his head and took a step away, forcing the loudest whisper he could. "Christ, Curtis, get it together, man!" From the corner of his eye, he could see that the man's hand was actually speeding up, and his breathing was becoming labored.

 _What a fucking low-life Neanderthal._ "You think that's gonna look good if the boss steps out into the hallway and sees you beatin' off to the sound of him and that girl? You want him to know that you're treatin' this like a two-bit peep show at his expense?"

Those words cut through Curtis' aroused mental haze. No, he guessed _didn't_ want the Joker to catch him with his hand down his pants while he whacked off to the sounds of his boss nailin' the slut. He had heard about a guy named Tangier losing both his balls and his prick, thanks to the Joker. Curtis decided that he liked his penis too much to risk parting with it. He stood up straight and removed his hand from his pants. "Guess you're right," he said with annoyed resignation.

Jones nodded in the direction of the bathroom. "For chrissakes, Curtis, wash your hands!"

The oaf shrugged his shoulders and lumbered down the hallway into the badly soiled bathroom that teamed with cockroaches. The pipes clanked after he turned the faucet on, rust-red water spurting forth in gasps.

Jones dropped his head. This is what it had come to. He was working alongside boorish rapists and violence-hungry thugs, waiting to do the bidding of a madman, whose taste for punishment had bled from a soulless black to something even darker.

He had to get out.

The woman that the Joker was 'playing' with was beyond saving, that much was clear. He wondered if it were possible to escape with his own neck.

Not likely. No, impossible.

From what he'd seen, the average tenure in the Joker's employ seemed to be around seven months or so; sometimes longer, often a lot shorter. Though Jones' tenure had been the longest, he knew its end was inevitable.

And vacancies were never voluntary. No one escaped from the Joker's ranks. No one.

The numbers of the Joker's crew shrank in one of three fashions: a trip to prison, courtesy of the Gotham police department; a trip to prison, by way of Gotham's County Hospital, thanks to the Batman; or a trip to the bottom of the river, courtesy of the Joker himself.

Voluntary discharge was not an option. Not remotely.

This is what pained Jones. There _was_ no way to get out of this racket. None. Anyone who tried to cut a deal with the district attorney or someone at GPD always ended up dead. Always.

And they didn't die quickly.

He was as trapped as the reporter was.

As Curtis ambled back toward him, he pulled his mask off. A shit-eating grin covered his face. "S'do you think her tits are C's or D's? On TV they look they're D's, but they didn't look as big in person."

Jones didn't dignify the question with a response. He didn't have to. The door swung open, and the Joker stepped out of The Room.

Curtis, flustered that he had been caught with his mask off, rushed to pull it back on again.

Jones' eyes drifted downward to the blood that was on the Joker's vest. It wasn't a lot, but enough to have come from a fairly good-sized cut. And it clearly didn't come from a wound on his own body. He shuddered.

The Joker handed him the video camera again.

"I've added a little extra footage," (smack) "of Mizzzz Lane – and _myself –_ along with another message for the G. P. D." He spat each initial. Jones had also noted that when the Joker spoke, more and more he was punctuating his consonants so sharply it sounded as though they were cutting the air.

He licked his lips. "Make sure that when Wallace's footage comes in, it's spliced in right after my little clip-ah." He raised his eyebrows at Jones. "Think you can manage that?"

Jones lowered his eyes and nodded obediently. He turned and walked down the hallway with the video camera cradled under his arm.

The Joker stretched out his arms and cracked his neck. He looked unblinking at Curtis, and tipped his head toward the door. "So, are you enjoying the performance, Curtisssss?"

Curtis' mask muffled the guffaws he couldn't contain. "Yeah, it sounds like—" He caught himself and stopped the thought. _Aw, fuck._ He had just admitted to eavesdropping on the Clown Prince of Crime during what was probably supposed to be a rather… _private_ moment.

The Joker's black eyes drilled into him. There was no hint of a smile on his face. As garish as the grin was, with those God-awful scars, Curtis actually would have given a month's pay for the Joker to smile at him right now. But he wasn't smiling. He looked _pissed,_ and probably a few other things that Curtis lacked the vocabulary to articulate.

"I mean, um, no. No, I wasn't enjoying it. No." He shook his head to underscore his point. "Nope."

The Joker narrowed his eyes. "You weren't, Curtis? Really? A man of your ilk-ah?"

Curtis blinked behind the mask. He didn't know what ilk meant.

The Joker continued. "I'm in that room, with a woman who is…" he licked his lips for emphasis. "… _byoo-teee-fullll,_ and completely _helpless_ to defend herself against _anything_ I choose to do." He stopped and scanned Curtis' eyes behind the mask. He could easily read the lascivious scenarios that the thug was forming in his mind, thanks to the seeds he had planted. "If I do say so myself, I am a man with quite a vivid imagination. Yet you're saying that my performance is _boring_ you?"

Curtis' mouth felt like it was stuffed with cotton. _Damn! There's no way I can get out of this, the way he's twisting it. I'm fucked if I admit I was listening. I can't insult him by saying I_ didn't _enjoy it, but I'm fucked if I tell him that I_ did _enjoy it, because that_ proves _I was listening._ He fumbled for the simplest words he could find. "N-no, you're not boring me."

"Curtis, you're a man who clearly is… _excited_ by the prospect of getting his hands on such a scrumptious. Little. Tart."

Curtis tried to shrug off what sounded like an accusation.

The Joker wasn't letting him off that easy. "Yes, you _are,_ Curtissss. You _are_ excited by the thought of what's going on in that room." The Joker's voice dropped from alto to tenor. "I can _smell_ it on your _han-d._ "

 _Busted._ Curtis stuffed his hand in his pocket, trying in vain to cover smell of his own crotch that covered his fingers and palm. There wasn't any soap in the skeleton of a bathroom for him to use when he'd washed his hands.

The Joker chewed on the corner of his mouth, tipping his head slightly, sizing up the man in front of him. The void of dialog stretched on.

The Joker cleaved the silence with his next words. "Is your idea of _guarding_ the door to whack off to whatever little _scenarios_ you envision are taking place on the other side?"

Despite the mask that covered him, the Joker knew the color had drained from Curtis' face. The double chin that dropped below the mask proved his jaw had gone slack from fear.

Curtis could see no way out of the conundrum, and chose to change the subject. "I'll go see if the video feeds have come through from the tollbooths and the airport yet," hoping that his eager offer of help would appease the clown on some level.

No such luck. "The video feed can't come in if the events haven't unfolded yet, _can it_?"

Curtis fumbled for something to say, but the Joker held him in verbal checkmate. He turned a shoulder away from the Joker, looking to gauge whether the conversation were over. He wanted to get the hell away from the clown. No trace of reaction in his boss' face. _I guess he doesn't have anything more to say. I sure as shit don't._ He turned to walk away, but the Joker spoke his name.

" _Curtis._ "

He felt as if someone had dripped ice water down his spine. He turned back toward the Joker, half expecting him to be wielding an axe with his name on it. "Yeah, boss?"

A menacing smile stretched across the Joker's face. He showed as many teeth as he could, looking like a crazed wolf. "I _really_ don't think it's in your best _interest._ To be _caught._ Doing. _THAT_. _Again._ " (smack) "Little _boys_ who get caught with their hand in the _cookie jar_ may end up losing their _hand._ And. Their. _Cookies."_ The giggling started again.

The infernal giggling.

 _Point taken._ "No, sir." He spun and sprinted down the hallway, chasing after Jones.

________________________________

The Joker took a deep breath in through his nostrils, held it, then exhaled with a burst of laughter. He kicked open the door.

Lois, who was curled in the fetal position in the middle of the floor, balled herself up tighter at the sound, afraid to look up. Gauging from his footsteps, he was going over to the corner of the room. _Back to his damned bag again, for more of his tricks,_ she thought wearily.

Indeed, the Joker _did_ have a few tricks he wanted to share with Lois.

"Hey ya, doll," his grin was cocked on one side of his face as he looked over his shoulder at her with impish glee. "How 'bout I show you what I can do with a _pencil_?!"

________________________________

. . . . . . .

Author's Notes for "A Blacker Shade of Pitch"

. . . . . . .

_Flashback to TDK: Even though his words dripped with sarcasm, the Joker spoke a truth to the Batman in the movie - the two are destined to be forever linked. Though I don't sense a sexual longing in the Joker for Batman, this revelation was something akin to what a lover would confess to another. The Joker had found his worthy opponent, and told Batman as much, both in the interrogation room and as he dangled upside down outside the building. For the Batman to withdraw from this arrangement, it would be a shattering of a sacred confidence bestowed upon him by the Joker._

_This was an important chapter for me to write, to help bring clarity to the Joker's motivations. Through Jones' recollections, we see how the Joker has deteriorated in the absence of the Batman, his wrath warping him into something ever-more violent._

_In my mind, he inevitably would have committed a heinous crime to get the Batman's attention, forcing the Caped Crusader back out in the open to reckon with him; however, the airing of_ Metropolis Live _\- as great as an affront as the show was - accelerated the time table of the destruction by providing a catalyst for the plan to manifest._

_Using the character of Jones, I also wanted to introduce a third party's observations of the complexities of the Joker's psyche, and the seeming contradictions he operates under: for as brutal as the Joker's actions have become, Jones keenly notices that the Joker doesn't exact violence on women personally._

_Again, look back to TDK: the two women that the Joker killed in singular acts of murder - the judge and Rachel - had three things in common:_

  1. _The women's deaths were instantaneous_
  2. _There would have been little (if any) physical remains_
  3. _The Joker was not present to witness either killing; he planned them, but it was not at his actual hand that the women died_



_I don't think this is a coincidence. Think of the brutal way the men in the movie died at the Joker's hands. Take the Commissioner, for example, and think of the excruciating pain he would have endured. The Joker inflicts suffering on his male victims. Did director Christopher Nolan fear offending the delicate sensibilities of the audience, should he have shown the Joker murdering the women personally? I choose not to think so. Instead, I think it shows the Joker was averse to the aftermath that would result from a woman dying at his hands._

_In this segment of the story, it appears to Curtis and Jones (and to the reader) that the Joker is forcing himself on Lois inside The Room. But is he? Or is there something else going on? Any common thug can use sexual assault as a tool of force, but the Joker is anything but common. I think that he harbors a strong sexuality, and as I mentioned in prior A/N, I see him as a very seductive man; rape would run counter to seduction. If he is averse to killing a woman, I think he'd be even more averse to raping one. He'll definitely push the envelope as far as possible with his sexual overtures toward Lois, but I don't see him - at this point - willfully damaging her like that._

_However, the further he slips into wanton destruction, his limits could very well be tested._

_-4ofC, 11.05.2008_


	13. Inside The Room

 

*** INSIDE THE ROOM ***

**Chapter 13**

**. . . . . . .**

As Jones handed the video camera to Barker, Curtis came bounding down the basement stairs after him. Curtis wasn't exactly light on his feet, and Jones half-expected to hear the crack of a rotted wooden step split in two, giving way under the goon's weight. The way he threw his heft around without check, it was bound to happen sooner or later. When the sound of his footfalls changed from the groaning protests of a staircase to the shuffling on cement, Jones realized his own disappointment that Curtis _hadn't_ broken a stair and fallen through.

As Curtis approached, Barker, in the Joker's service for his tech savvy, leaned forward in the computer chair and connected a video camera to a battery charger. The camera had a big white sticker on the side with a large number "2" written on it with frenzied strokes of red crayon, in a style that would have made Van Gogh proud. The camcorder sat nestled in its charger next to another camera with a crayon-scribbled "1" sticker, which had been used to film the earlier footage sent to the Gotham Police Department. Barker knew that there were other cameras in the Joker's bag, with stickers bearing a "3", "4" and a "5". They would be brought to him in numerical order as the night wore on. He was prepared to edit the footage any way the Joker instructed at a moment's notice, on the ready to pump the feed to the GPD servers, Gotham Cable News servers, or any other hub that the Joker chose.

Curtis removed his mask, tucking it under his arm, and leaned into Jones' stance to view the computer monitor. "So is it up yet? God, I can't _wait_ to see it!"

Wallace was resting up against a wall, arms folded across his chest in pride. "You shoulda been there, man. It was freakin' righteous. People screamin', bodies everywhere, fire burnin' everything up. The explosion blew me onto my damned back! Wait to you see what I got on camera." He fanned his hands outward in front of himself, presenting the scope. "The bus was absolutely _totaled._ The blast even wiped out the news crew!" Wallace smiled and held a palm forward above his head, for an anticipated high-five of congratulations from Curtis.

Barker beat him to it, jumping out of his chair awkwardly to seize the opportunity to display some old-fashioned, macho male-bonding. He slapped Wallace's hand, and tried to give a manly exclamation of, "Good job!" but the mask muffled his words into something more like, "Guhn jah".

Wallace down looked at Barker in disgust. "Don't ever touch me again, you fuckin' faggot."

Barker shrank his diminutive frame back into the chair, and offered a feeble apology. Wallace eyed him up and down. Barker was a small man, barely 5'3" and couldn't have weighed more than a buck fifteen. Not the usual sort you'd see in a den of thieves, but the Joker had brought him into the fold from Arkham. Barker had formidable technical skills and a slavish devotion to the clown. As testament to this allegiance, he always kept his clown mask on.

Wallace chuckled. Barker was so small that the mask was almost as wide as his shoulders. He resembled a human Q-Tip. "You look like a total douche with your mask on. You know that, right?"

Barker stiffened in his chair. "Mr. _Joker_ said that when guests are in the house, the masks have to say on. I'm obeying orders directly from Mr. _Joker._ "

Jones, Curtis and Wallace all exchanged glances. Curtis and Wallace both gave each other knowing grins, silently mouthing _MISTER JOKER_ in mockery between them. Jones remained stone-faced.

None of them had _their_ masks on.

Barker continued his rebuke. "You fellas think it's okay to take them off just because he's not around, but Mr. _Joker_ sees _everything_. He _knows_ everything."

Wallace sneered in disgust. "You are one creepy little homo, you know that? Just show Curtis the video that I shot and keep your mouth shut."

Curtis shook his head and stood with arms akimbo. "Nah, I don't care about that. That's not the feed I was talking about."

Wallace's smirk faded, insulted and dumbstruck that anyone would want to see something other than his recording of the Oak Grove Retirement Home bus in flames. "Seriously?" _How much cooler can you get than a first-hand account of C4 blowing a bus with a bunch of geezers to smithereens?_

Curtis bent forward to rest his hands on the table, and raised his eyebrows. "I want to see what the Joker just recorded inside The Room."

Jones' jaw tightened. He had his suspicions about what had happened, but he certainly didn't want to watch it. He shook his head in disagreement. "I don't think we've got time to waste." He put his hand on Barker's shoulder, thankful that he could rely on the man's devotion to the Joker as reinforcement to his point. "Barker's got work to do with the footage. He's got to add what Wallace filmed to the end. Let's leave him in peace so he can do his job."

Barker nodded, puffing up with importance imbued from the responsibility entrusted to him.

Curtis eyed Jones in annoyance. "If Barker's got to add Wallace's footage to the _end_ of what the boss just shot, then he has to watch the video from the _start_ , right?"

Jones swallowed. "No, it's digital. He can just cut right to the end—"

"It won't take long at all," Barker interrupted. "There only appears to be 10 minutes of footage, probably less."

Jones scowled at the back of the man's masked head. _Thanks, Barker, you worm._

Barker smiled behind his mask at the prospect of watching Mr. Joker in action. It thrilled him to think what Mr. Joker might say to the camera. Watching Mr. Joker speak to the camera was almost the same as having Mr. Joker speak directly to _him._ Those moments were rare, but he brought them out of his memory bank from time to time, savoring them as a stray mutt would a bone scrap from a butcher's garbage.

Barker slipped the mini-disc into the drive. It spun its whirling dervish dance, and the monitor flickered as the footage rolled.

Curtis, Barker and Wallace all leaned forward toward the screen in eager anticipation.

Jones hugged himself tightly, stepped back, and cast his eyes over to a black basement corner. He wondered if the vortex he fixed his eyes on were half as dark as the bottomless sinkholes that pocked the Joker's conscience.

He also wondered if there were a way to obscure the sound that poured out of the computer's speakers, short of his own screaming.

________________________________

"Ah… ha. Ha ha. Welcome back to _Gotham Live._ " (smack) "We're glad you could join us tonigh _t_."

The screen was black. There was a muffled rustling akin to the sound heard when holding a seashell to one's ear, a soft roaring as something passed over the camera's microphone, temporarily and unwittingly muffling the audio. The sound made when someone is fumbling for leverage and for a steady grip.

A few clicks. Light flooded the screen as the camera's lens cap was removed. Streaks of brightness stained the frame and faded, as the camera swung away from the harsh glare onto something darker.

Then the monitor's screen was filled with navy.

As the camera shifted and the auto-focus kicked in, a dark blue cloth belt came into focus, resting above the sharp navy peak of a hipbone under fabric. It was the waistline of Lois' pants. She was lying on the floor.

The Joker's voice was taut and shrill. "In this segment of our show, we'll be asking some _questionssss._ Where shall we start?" The Joker could be heard slapping his knee as he burst forward with a chortle. "I guess _that_ was a question, in an of itself, wasn't it?" Another cackle. "Oops, another one!"

Lois' hip was still centered in the screen. It made the monologue seem all the more disjointed, the visual incongruous to the audio.

The Joker made a dramatic overture to clear his throat deeply. "But seriously, ladies and gentlemen, let's start with a question that has crossed my mind a time or two. Did anyone at _Metropolis Live_ ever stop for… a _moment,_ to consider if there might be…" he made a sucking sound off camera. "… _consequences_ to a broadcast that amounted to _slander?_ "

Only then did the camera move, panning upwards a few inches to a stained shirt.

Blood-stained.

A man's hand came in from the left side of the frame, an open switchblade held fast to the palm by his thumb. The splayed fingers pulled up at the fabric of Lois' shirt – white, with thin navy stripes, and an occasional gossamer stripe of gold thrown in. The shirt had been purchased from the women's floor at Macy's, in the career section that showcased the wares of high-profile designers, marketed for high-income ball-busters. It was an elegant shirt with a whispered tailoring of no-nonsense, meticulously crafted for that career woman who wanted to look styled while stepping on the aspirations of those unfortunate enough to stand in her way to the top.

Haute couture for the female corporate vulture. Fitting for an ambitious reporter.

But not terribly imposing to a man wielding a knife, with a basementful of semi-automatic weapons and an unrelenting grudge.

No, the expensive shirt now amounted to little more than a decorative bandage, soaking up blood in thirsty, spotty patches, the crimson stains all the more visible set in contrast to the crisp white stripes.

"Hee. Ho ha. Heh… uh, look." His hand hiked the shirt up higher, exposing flesh up to the first rib below her left breast. A woman's stomach filled the frame, glistening with fear-induced sweat and slick with blood from a long diagonal cut, a few inches down and to the right of the belly button. The stomach rose and fell with spasms of hyperventilating breath. The Joker's hand folded the waist of the pants down a few inches, fingers curling under her belt, allowing the camera a better shot of the injury. High-pitched whimpering could be heard between gasps for air.

"Now, ah, you see what _happens_ when the media" (smack) "runs stories without checking the _merit_ of their sources _._ _This_ ," he pointed to the gash on Lois' stomach, tapping the knife's blade on her flesh near the cut. "is a _consequence_ of the ill-informed broadcast that _Metropolis Live_ chose to run last night-ah."

With his fingertips he pushed on the skin above the cut, applying increasing force until the cut visually thickened with blood pooling from the pressure. Lois' stomach muscles reflexively tightened, and her whispered curse was barely audible, as she spit it out through sharp breaths. _"You! Bastard!"_

The Joker made no show that he recognized her having said anything, continuing with his attention on the wound. "This _consequence_ will be just one. Of. Many." The knife's blade retracted, and seemed to disappear into his palm. He took his index finger and swiped it the length of the cut from bottom to top, collecting blood as he dragged it at an infuriatingly slow pace, with purpose. Lois drew her breath in and gasped in pain. The camera panned off to the side near Lois' waist, and focused on the floorboards. His hand came back into the frame, and using his finger as a paintbrush, he dabbed a fingerprint of blood onto the floor.

Then a second, close to the first.

Below those, he traced the bottom half of a circle.

The proximity of his mouth to the camera's microphone made his cackle deafening. He howled in amusement as he manually manipulated the camera's zoom feature in and out repeatedly on the smiley face he had drawn in Lois' blood.

There was a blur of skin, and the Joker brought Lois' left forearm into the picture, holding her tightly by the wrist. He turned her arm to expose the pale underside, her shirtsleeve having been cut off above the elbow. The camera fixed on the lengthy cuts running down her forearm, wounds too shallow to hit muscle or sinew, but deep enough to bleed generously. "And here's another _._ Consequence." He twisted her wrist to and fro, to expose the cuts relentlessly to the camera. "Oooh, those look like they ah… they _hurt._ Do they hurt? _Lois?_ That's a _question_ just for you. _"_

The camera swung up the length of her torso and focused on the underside of her jaw. Her chin was tipped upward as her head lay back on the floor. She didn't respond.

The frame swung and pitched, as the Joker hiked himself up to a vantage point allowing him to film Lois' face. The erratic movement of the camera was enough to make Curtis a little unsteady on his feet as he watched, his equilibrium momentarily challenged by the undulations and shifting focal point. At one point, Mooney's corpse flashed into the field of view, still on the floor several few feet away.

"Lois Lane, I am _talking_ to you." From the camera's angle one could deduce that the Joker had straddled Lois, looking straight down at her face from a distance of only a few feet. Her cheeks were tear-stained, and her mascara had run into unflattering ebony streaks below her eyes. Her lips and chin were still red from the Joker's own mouth, with some white greasepaint streaking on the lower part of her jaw to a bleak gray. Her eyes shifted back and forth rapidly, from the camera to something just to the left of the frame.

To the Joker's face.

One could see that she was trying to anticipate what was coming next.

"Answer the question, _Loissss._ Do. They. Hurt?" The camera panned down to her forearm, then back up to her face.

Her mouth tightened and her jaw set. She narrowed her eyes as she looked at him. Her voice was quiet, but defiant. " _No."_

"No? Really?" Giggling. "Gosh, I guess I'm just not _trying_ hard enough. To make my ah, _point_."

The camera dropped down to film her throat, as the Joker leaned back and to the side in distraction. The high-pitched clinking of metal on metal – a belt buckle – could be heard off camera being unfastened, followed by the friction of leather being pulled free with haste from belt loops. The camera dipped low as hands briefly came into focus, doubling a woman's navy blue belt over on itself to form a loop. The camera's focus jolted upward again to just under Lois' chin. A loud hollow slap could be heard, as the Joker brought the leather down with swift force on the wounds on her arm. Lois' neck arched, filling the camera's view as she shrieked in pain.

The camera shifted up to her face, eyes wet, welling with tears. " _That_ didn't hurt-ah? Tell me _true,_ honey- _do._ We can do this again with the _buckle_ end, if that's what it takessss."

Jones' mouth fell open, and he finally turned toward the monitor with the other three men to see what would come next. Wallace winced while he watched. Curtis smiled. Barker sat absolutely still.

The camera teetered in for too-close of a close-up, Lois' left eye and part of her forehead filling the screen. The Joker could be heard licking his lips. "And if it _takes_ all night, then I can _go_ all night. Let's try this again-ah. I know you want to play _nice_ during our Q and A segment of the show, so I'll ask _again._ Did. That. Hurt?"

The lens drew back to capture her whole face. Seething through gritted teeth, she growled at him. "Yes, it _hurt!_ "

He stroked the right side of her face with his left hand. "Ladies and gentlemen, isn't she just a _vision?_ " He then patted her face twice, hard enough to sound two resounding smacks. Lois squinted her eyes, bracing against the slaps. She blinked several times, the bright lights from the overhead spotlights stinging her eyes as badly as the tears.

"Another question for you, Sweet Tart. How do you feel knowing that no one's going to get you out of this pree-DIC-a-ment, hmmmm?"

Lois snorted in contempt and turned her face to the side.

"Don't like that one? Mmmm, how 'bout this one: didn't you once publish an interview with The Man of Steel?"

Lois' eyes visibly started to tear with that question. She remained silent.

"If he's such a fantastic... _super-ah hero,_ then why hasn't he figured out that one of Metropolis' own is in danger yet?"

No reaction from Lois. The silence drew out.

"Why hasn't he come _crashing_ through the walls to sweep you away and pummel my bones into dust? Any idea? Any at all?"

She bit her lip, and shook her head back and forth in barely visible motions.

"And what's up with that hideous outfit he wears?"

Silence.

"Red briefs on the outside of blue long underwear? A red _cape_?"

Her lip started to tremble.

The tone of his voice conveyed excitement. "Do you know who _else_ wears a cape? The. Bat. Man. Think _he_ knows where you are?"

Lois closed her eyes.

The camera spun back to the Joker's face. "Want to know what _I_ think?" He licked his lips. " _I_ think that the _Batman_ doesn't _like_ the Superman, and I _don't_ think that the _Superman_ likes the _Batman,_ either. _I_ think that the flying _freak_ won't come to Gotham, because this is supposed to be the _Batman's_ city."

The camera spun back on Lois, whose breathing was becoming labored. His hand brushed the hair from her forehead, and he took her chin in his hand, tilting her face up to the camera.

"The Batman hasn't been seen in a long, long time in this city, Mizzzz Lane. You know what I think that means?" His voice lowered to a raspy whisper. "I think it means that it's just _you_ and _me_ for the long haul, toots. It's no use screaming," his hand moved down to cover up her mouth to underscore his point. "because not only does _no one_ know where you are, in very short while, _you_ are going to be one of the _last_ things on people's minds." Her brow knotted, confusion evident in her eyes.

He clarified. "There are a few other... _distractions_ in the making."

His hand withdrew from the frame. The camera spun, catching Mooney's body again, the wall, then the bright lights of the spotlights rigged to the ceiling. The harsh white filled the frame, and then the camera spun again. The Joker had positioned himself on his back, on the floor next to Lois, leaning his head against hers. He held the camera above them both.

"Lois and I are so _glad_ that you could join us tonight—"

Lois seized the opportunity. As the Joker lay in a prone position next to her, she tried to make a getaway. She rolled herself out of the camera frame, and moved to stand up.

"Ah, ah, _ah!_ " The chiding came after the camera had been set down with little care onto the floor with a clamor, as the Joker jumped up after her. For the first time, the camera was perfectly still, the profile of Mooney's corpse filling the frame from a distance of about 7 feet, arm down at his side, hand palm-up. Sounds of a struggle could be heard out of view off to the side, along with the Joker's giggling. "Where. Do you _think._ You're _going_?"

There was a stomping sound on the floor. Someone hit a wall. A scuffing sound as feet dragged across the floorboards. The sound of a slap to a man's chest, and then another burst of the Joker's laughter.

Worn men's shoes stepped forward into view, along with a pair of women's navy heeled boots that were stumbling backward. Both pairs of feet shuffled back and forth in the camera's frame, as Lois struggled and the Joker got his hold. A cracking noise blasted through the computer's speakers and all four men in the basement jumped back at the noise, as the camera was kicked near the microphone and spun on the floor. It stopped its spin so that the top half of Mooney's head could be seen in profile, including the raised flesh near the wounds where the bullets had pierced his skull.

"You are making this so. Much. _FUN!_ " More cackling. A cry of frustration from Lois.

A heavy thud sounded. Bodies hitting the floor in unison. "C'mon, there's a good _girllll_." Another giggle. The sounds of more struggling. Then a sharp cry of pain from Lois. The camera shifted quickly, jostled once again by the fracas.

It stopped moving and filmed its subjects from only a few feet away. The Joker's body and Lois' spanned the width of the screen. He had her pinned under the full length of him. She was forced down on her stomach, he on her back. Their heads and shoulders were out of the frame to the right, as were their legs below the knees to the left, leaving a tangle of torsos, arms and hips to fill the screen. The computer monitor was awash in a visual cacophony of colors; a forest green vest, royal purple pants, a purple-blue shirt mottled with confounding patterns. A white striped shirt with random blood stains. Navy pants.

The Joker moved his hand to her waist, and held it there. Whispering. A man's deep voice speaking in a low threatening tone, too low to be made out on camera. Centered in the camera's frame, he tapped her on her right hip as an imperative for her to move, then he hoisted himself up a few inches and rolled her over onto her back. Her wounded left forearm now in the camera's view at her side. He lowered himself back down on top of her.

More hushed words from the Joker. A whimper of a protest from Lois. In the camera's view, the Joker slipped his hand down the length of Lois' bleeding forearm. Not scratching her or aggravating the cuts. Just brushing the arm, searching for her hand. When his hand reached her wrist, he smoothed his fingers into her open palm, spreading out her fingers with his and entwining his hand with hers. He squeezed it tightly, then brought both of their hands up out of the camera's view toward their faces.

It was an uncomfortably intimate gesture to watch, and Jones' teeth were clenched, jaw tight.

The Joker's voice droned on, too low for the camera to record clearly. Only Lois was meant to hear it. From the sound of her muffled reply, she didn't like what she was hearing.

Curtis hit Barker's shoulder with the back of his hand. "What's he saying to her? Turn it up!"

Barker reached to adjust the audio, then froze as he saw the Joker lift himself up onto his knees. A shadow fell on the camera as he reached for it. The sound of bodies shifting could be heard once again.

The camera found their faces as it was lifted and held at arm's length. Lois was sitting up on the floor like a Raggedy Ann doll, and the Joker was sitting right behind her. He had his legs wrapped loosely around her hips, the weight of his legs holding hers down. With his left arm, he gripped her around the torso tightly, pinning her arms to her side. He rested his chin on her right shoulder, so they were cheek to cheek. Her hair was as disheveled and wild looking as his. He looked into the camera and licked his lips.

"My _lov-el-ee_ co-host and I want to leave you with one more question, before we take another break-ah." He sucked his cheeks in, turned his face slightly toward Lois' and looked askance at her from the corners of his eyes. "Dar-lingggg, do _you_ want to ask them, or ah, or should I?"

She looked directly into the camera for the first time, acceptance of defeat written across her features. She kept still, stewing with anger, hampered by pain, weak with physical exhaustion.

The Joker raised his eyebrows and shrugged his shoulders. "Mmmmkay, I guess I'll ask the question." He turned his eyes back toward the camera, his trademark Glasgow smile stretching the expanse of his face.

"If I am a man without _mercy…"_ He kept his eyes fixed on the camera, unblinking, as he tipped his chin down toward Lois' neck. He kissed it.

"… a man so _cruel…_ " He kissed her neck again, higher up, with increased pressure.

"…a man showing such wanton _malice…_ " His tongue slid out over his ruby lips and he licked the side of Lois' face. She recoiled from the touch, eyes clamped shut.

"… to be able to kill a bus filled with the defenseless _retired elderly…_ "

Lois' eyes snapped open at this revelation.

He removed his hand from around her waist, brought it up to her chin and roughly turned her head to face him. He planted a deep, hard kiss on her mouth, nearly out of the camera's frame from the compromise of balance. He pulled away from her forcefully, and looked back at the camera, his leer filling the entire frame.

"… then just what other _surprises_ could I be capable of on this fine night in Gotham?" His tongue darted out quickly, licking his lips in subconscious anticipation. "If _I_ were you, _citizens of Gothammmm-ah,_ I'd get the hell out of this city as quickly as I could. You see," (smack) "I've planted some… explosives. In different areas, all around. Not just on buses with grandmas."

Lois' face had gone stark white and she started to shake visibly.

"Ha aha, heh. Not that I _wanted_ to do any of this, I hope you understand. Ah, no… " He paused, and turned his face to Lois'. "My hand was _forced_ , when this little. Sweet. Tart. Broadcast her show claiming that I'm just some…"

He closed his eyes, shook his head and bared his teeth. "Ridiculous circus _freak_ who merrily skips about the city, popping children's balloons or spitting chewing gum on the sidewalk-ah."

His eyes blackened on the screen from anger. "Now, I ah, I just couldn't allow my vaunted _re-pyoo-TA-shun_ to be tainted without a _fight,_ could I?"

He tightened his grip around Lois again. "Gotham, as one of your citizenssss, I think _you_ should feel my pain, as well. _My_ personal injury will become _yours._ The fireworks haven't been hidden in train stations or schools… they've been secured to the sides of residential homes. To the backs of random garages. To the laundry facilities in selected government housing buildingsssss."

Lois appeared to go slack in his arms. He smiled into the camera, scars puckering and pulling his cheeks taut like a hyena. "This is _your_ doing, _Metropolissss._ Think you can kick a clown when he's down—" (smack) "—and not expect a few repercussionsssss? Since I can't strike out at _your_ city… I'll just have to use my _ownnnn._ To demonstrate. My. Point-ah."

He sucked in his cheeks, cocked an eyebrow, and winked at the camera. "T. T. F. N, _Gothammmm_."

The camera tipped backward, a fumbling noise covered the microphone, and then a clicking sound.

The screen went black as the lens cap was put back in place.

The audio was still recording. "Barkerrrr, this feed goes out with Wallace's to the GPD, GCN, and to _Metropolis Live._ And you will send it out _immediately._ Capice, little pal? _"_

Another click, and the video stopped.

________________________________

. . . . . . .

Author's Notes for "Inside The Room"

. . . . . . .

_The Joker is really getting into the taunting portion of his fun with Lois. The cuts, the man-handling and the probing questions are carefully chosen to extend Lois' suffering. The physical wounds weren't deep enough to critically injure her; he wants her well enough to draw out the evening. The deepest cuts could very well be the psychological ones._

_Usually I like to provide the characters' frame of mind during a scene, offering context for their words and actions. However, as the actions that transpired inside The Room were presented as a video feed, there could be no commentary behind either the Joker's or Lois' thoughts. None of the men watching the video would know what their thoughts were, so I had to keep the reader in the dark as well. That illumination will come in the next chapter._

_In that chapter, I'll detail what's going on between Lois and the Joker_ right now _when all the men are in the basement, gathered around the computer watching the video..._

_-4oC, 2008.11.09_


	14. Scars and Damnation

 

*** SCARS AND DAMNATION ***

**Chapter 14**

**. . . . . . .**

After the video ended, all four men remained silent.

Barker dutifully cut the last few seconds from the video feed with the Joker's instructions to him, surreptitiously tucking the digital snippet into a file just for himself, so he could savor it later at his leisure. He made quick work of editing the two sets of footage, compressing the file and sending it out to the so-called 'secure' servers with state-of-the-art firewalls he found amusingly easy to penetrate.

The esteem in which Barker held the clown waxed to the point of idol worship. He was awestruck by the manipulative tactics and magnetism the Joker displayed in wresting Lois' hope of escape or rescue out from under her with questions as sharp and nefarious as his knives. Mr. Joker was the most dangerous man he had ever seen. Mr. Joker was powerful, and Barker envied Lois Lane that _she_ got to spend so much time in The Room with him alone.

Wallace ran a hand through his hair, reveling in self-importance at having been the instrument the Joker used to initiate what was sure to be one hell of a reign of terror. He also felt a renewed sense of fearful respect for the man who was the puppet master in this show. He said a silent prayer of thanks that he was in cahoots with the mastermind, instead of being one of the hapless Gothamites out in the city tonight, who could very well find themselves in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Jones stood in mute disorientation. Blowing up buses carrying the elderly… planting explosives around the city at random... setting up the public for further mayhem... the Joker reminded him of a child who would knock over an anthill to see the ants scramble, then stomp on them just because he could. His head spun as he tried to wrap his mind around the sheer scope of destruction that was going to unfold.

And then there was Lois… although Jones felt a palpable relief that he didn't have to watch a lurid assault on film, it still unnerved him to see the physical pain and jagged emotional rips the Joker was all-too willing to inflict. He could be upstairs defiling her right now, for all they knew. Jones realized that he had been foolish to assume that there was any type of honor in the Joker that would prevent him from breaking another person, man _or_ woman. The moral compass of a psychopath always pointed toward sadism.

Curtis shifted his weight impatiently, and was the first to break the silence. He shrugged his shoulders and held his arms out in exasperation, motioning toward the darkened computer monitor. "So that's it? That's _all_ that happened?"

Wallace looked at him. "What do you mean, 'that's _all_ that happened?' That was fuckin' _brilliant!_ Didn't you hear his threat? He's going to scare the shit out of everyone in Gotham, sending them streaming to the airports, the bus depots and the freeways, right where he wants 'em. As soon as Barker pumps this feed out, it's Lights Out, Gotham."

Barker craned his neck upwards. "The file has already been sent. It's hit the servers at the Gotham Police Department, Gotham Cable News and _Metropolis Live_ by now _."_

Curtis rolled his eyes. "I wasn't talking about what's happening _out there_ tonight. I meant what happened _in here,_ upstairs in The Room, with _her._ Is that all he _did_ with her?"

Wallace half grinned, shook his head and narrowed his eyes at Curtis. "What are you talking about? It looked to me like he roughed her up pretty good in there. She looks a lot worse for the wear to me."

Barker looked up at Curtis from behind his mask. "What were you hoping for, Curtis? Were you hoping he would skin her alive, like he did with that drug pusher?" Barker shuddered, glad that it didn't come to that. It would have been a beast to watch on film.

Curtis let his arms fall to his sides in a show of petulant frustration, hands slapping his meaty thighs. "No! What I _mean_ is—"

"What he _means_ is," Jones interrupted, "he's disappointed that he didn't _rape_ her on camera." He glowered at Curtis. "That _is_ what you meant, isn't it?"

A perverse smile crossed Curtis' face. He pointed at Jones. "Yeah, _that's_ what I'm _talkin'_ about. Show the bitch how it's _done._ Put her in her _place_ an' let her know who's in charge."

Jones turned away from Curtis, too disgusted to even look at him. Wallace nodded and shrugged, understanding Curtis' point but not sharing his fervor on the subject.

Curtis shook his head. "I don' know. I gotta say that I'm disappointed, here. I thought there would be more, you know? I thought we'd get to see him fuck her raw."

Barker shifted in his chair, clearly unnerved. "Jeez, Curtis, that's pretty gross."

Curtis' mouth hung open. "Gross?! A guy fuckin' a girl is _gross_ to you? I suppose if you're a flaming _fag_ like _you,_ it would be 'gross'. But any man worth his salt woulda done more to her."

He looked at Jones and Wallace for back-up on his point. "C'mon! I'm just sayin', I thought he had the balls to do more than just what we saw. Maybe he's not such a man after all."

Wallace and Jones drew in their breath, and looked at each other. It was the same type of rash remark that Tangier had made. _And we know how_ that _one ended._ The thought was unspoken but hung thick in the air.

Barker's voice cracked in indignation. "How _dare_ you insult Mr. Joker? You can't talk about him that way!"

Curtis leaned over Barker in his chair with a menacing air. "I think I just _did_ talk about him that way. If _Mister Joker_ is such a bad-ass, then why didn't he just nail the bitch? Maybe the guy's a little light in his loafers, if you know what I mean." He crossed his arms and snorted in disgust. "I'm sure that's exactly what _you're_ hopin' for, you fuckin' queer!"

Barker didn't reply. He turned to face the monitor, pretending to be occupied with something needing his immediate attention.

"Hey, man," Wallace cut in, "we don't know _what_ went on upstairs before the camera started rolling. We know that he cut her before the camera was on. He could have done just about anything before hand. What do you care?"

Jones walked to the stairs to get out of the conversation. He nodded in Curtis' direction, and said over his shoulder to Wallace, "Six years in Gotham State Penitentiary for first degree sexual assault, _that's_ why he cares."

Curtis rumbled a laugh. "I was framed, man. I didn't rape nobody." Jones ignored the protestations of guilt, and walked up the stairs to get as far away from the thug as he could.

Curtis looked at Wallace, and shrugged his shoulders casually, imbued with a false sense of security. "I'm just sayin' that maybe the boss isn't such a dangerous tough-guy, like he wants everyone to think he is."

Curtis would find out later that night just how wrong he was.

________________________________

When the Joker had stepped out of The Room into the hall to give the second video camera to Jones and Curtis, Lois coiled herself into a fetal position on the floor, lying on her side. She clasped her knees as tightly to her chest as she could, willing herself to disappear. She wanted to fold in on herself a hundred times over, falling into an infinite black hole of her own making.

She felt like she were being stretched beyond the snapping point physically, emotionally and psychologically, both expanding and contracting in a myriad of ways that all twisted around a slippery axis that was the Joker.

Lois was a throbbing tangle of physical pain: her lip was swelling where the Joker had bitten it, and her earlobe felt as though it still bore his teeth marks. Her forearm burned from the cuts and stung from the welt delivered by the belt lashing. Her lower abdomen was pierced with agony where he had drawn his knife, aggravated by the pressure of his probing fingers. Her stomach muscles ached from being clenched with fear, her eyes burned from the harsh spotlights, and the God-forsaken stench of the corpse under the intense heat of the lights rolled over her in nauseating waves.

Everything just _hurt,_ God damn it.

Her mouth was dry. She didn't know how long she had gone without food or water, and she had little concept of time. She noticed that at some point her watch had been removed, probably before she regained consciousness. It was dark outside, and that was all she knew. _He_ wouldn't want her to have the luxury of a frame of reference, no matter how tenuous. No tie to anything outside The Room, so he could perpetuate her disorientation.

It was working. It felt like she had been there an eternity, but she reasoned that it likely had only been a few hours.

Only a few hours.

 _What_ else _can happen to me in just a few more hours' time?_

 _Too much_ , considering what had just happened in the last few minutes…

________________________________

After she had attempted her last run at the door, the Joker had tackled her to the floor, but not before allowing her the illusion that she had a fighting chance. He didn't raise his arms to defend himself when she'd struck out at him, all the while laughing and pawing at her tauntingly, riling her up for the sport of it. Telling her how much _fun_ she was making it. When he did finally take her down, he lunged at her and her ankle bent at a sharp angle under her own weight and his. Now she didn't think her ankle could bear weight at all if she tried to stand.

The side of her hip hurt from where she hit the floorboards when they fell entangled in each other. She tried to crawl away from him, but he swiftly grabbed her from behind by her waist. He overtook her, enveloping her as he drove her flat into the floor on her stomach. Her hipbones bruised from the weight of him on her back. Her right arm had collapsed under her, pinned beneath both of them at her stomach. He held her injured left arm down at her side. Her breasts ached from the excess weight driving her downward, and there was pressure on her right cheekbone. He pressed his forehead into her left temple, pushing the right side of her face harder into the floor.

He was cognizant of the pain he was causing her.

"I know, ah, that this is an uncomfortable position for you, Loissss," he had hissed in her left ear. "Such a strong-willed woman like yourself, _used_ to being… shall we say," (smack) "on _top_? Ah ha, ha." He licked his lips and dropped his voice to a guttural pitch into the side of her neck. "I _know_ that I'm _hurting_ you like this, aren't I?"

She was able to respond with only a whimper, her chest compressed under the weight of him, and the incessant pressure from his forehead at her temple making it difficult to form logical thoughts and coherent replies.

"I don't, ah, want to hurt you _too_ much, Sweet Tart. Not just _yet._ We've got to keep you camera- _friendly._ So let's shift you around a bit, shall we?" He tapped the side of her hip, encouraging her to roll over onto her backside as he lifted himself off of her. Lois' strength failed her, and he had to help roll her by taking her right shoulder and pulling her over. When she finally rolled over onto her back, the relief in pressure was immediate, but fleeting, as he quickly lowered himself down onto her once more, the full length of him covering her.

Lois found this position even more uncomfortable than the one she had just shifted out of. It was uncomfortable in more ways than one. She was now facing him. Up close.

 _Very_ close.

His face mere inches from hers.

He smiled his jagged grin with broad ferocity. "There," his tongue darted out to lick his lips, "I can't have you trying to get away _again,_ can I?"

Lois didn't have the strength to look away. Her head was pounding.

"All _betterrrrrr_?"

She didn't intend to say anything, but she must have made a sound. He interpreted it as a concession on her part, and he dipped his chin once in a nod. "Good."

In her tenure at The Daily Planet, Lois had backed more than one hard-ass into a corner: she had publicly grilled a US Senator about lurid text messages sent to an underage baby sitter; she had left a sheik tongue-tied and affronted on his own yacht when she presented him with documentation that his son's business was actually a front that allowed the Israeli army to recruit Palestinians to their cause; she even had disrupted the award ceremony for Metropolis Businesswoman of the Year with her allegations that the award recipient – none other than the governor's daughter – had fabricated her credentials and had plagiarized the work for which she was being commended.

Lois was a woman who wasn't afraid to use her words to rattle cages.

But now, with a demented lunatic atop her… there was nothing she could say. Words failed her. They were her final defense, and even that was stripped from her.

Lois Lane looked straight up into the face of the Joker.

His eyes ran over her face, and hers over his. They _considered_ each other.

She saw the flesh of his face where the greasepaint had rubbed off onto her own face, and where the natural creases from his expressions had freed themselves from the stark white color. His irises were so dark in hue they appeared nearly black, seeming all the more foreboding for the tar-colored paint around the sockets. The black paint was bleeding into the white on his cheeks, creating an alloyed gray. His teeth were stained – permanently, she assumed – from the red paint, or lipstick, or blood, or _God knew_ what the substance was, which traversed his face in an angry slash and leaked into his mouth. The tangled clumps of his wavy hair were badly in need of a wash, dirty dark blonde under hints of green.

This is what Lois saw.

And, of course, _the scars._

The scars on his cheeks were all the more garish because of their asymmetry. The scar on the left cheek was a wide, deep slash, almost horizontal, puckering his mouth more acutely at the labial fold whenever he spoke. It looked harsh. The scar on the right cheek pulled up much longer and higher, with a high ridge reaching back toward the outer corner of his eye.

She wondered which of the wounds had been inflicted first.

The scar on the right side of his face definitely had a cleaner line to it, and was the more theatrical of the two. Had that gash been inflicted first, and when the excruciating pain overwhelmed him, all he could bear was to finish up the left side with a frenzied, quick slash?

Or…

…or had the scar on the left side merely served as the _practice_ swipe, the first go to see what it felt like… and then the right scar was carved with more artistry _despite_ the excruciating pain?

Or perhaps _because_ of it.

From what she had seen, this man didn't process pain normally. It was almost as though he thrived on pain… others' and even his own.

No, _especially_ his own.

But then again, maybe he didn't inflict the wounds himself.

The Joker could see these questions in her eyes. He ran his tongue out the side of his mouth and touched the scar to the left side. "You're looking at my _scars,_ aren't you, _Lois_ _Lane_?"

She blinked, feeling small when he addressed her with her full name. She remained silent.

He smirked, hiking up the right side of his face. "Do you, ah, do _you_ want to know what it _feels_ like? To have _scars_ like these?"

Her eyes widened in fear. _No. NO._ She was dizzy and he was on top of her and she couldn't breathe and everything hurt and she was frightened and she didn't want to be here.

And she definitely did _not_ want him to cut her again, giving her a Chelsea grin to match his own. A faint gasp left her lips. It was all she could muster.

His voice dropped to a rough whisper. "No, I don't mean like _that._ " He removed his right hand from her left shoulder and ran it down the length of her arm, searching for her hand while he kept his eyes fixed on hers. His fingertips grazed the cuts on her forearm, shooting pain up her arm again. She winced as he pushed his fingers into her palm, entwining his fingers with hers. He brought her hand back up toward their faces.

"I mean like _this._ "

He held her fingertips and brushed them over the scar on his right cheek. The raised relief startled her, smooth but rigid. She watched her fingers as he traced them over the length of his scar, starting at the high end of it, working them down toward the corner of his mouth. She was frightened but fascinated, and grateful for a distraction. Lois couldn't bear to meet his unrelenting gaze any longer at such close proximity. It unnerved her too much to look directly into the blackness of his eyes, and the intensity of his stare burned her.

He brought her fingers down toward the middle of his mouth, to feel a small wishbone-shaped scar just below the lower lip that she hadn't noticed before. He flicked his tongue against her fingertips. It sent an electric jolt through her. His chest expanded into hers as a throaty laugh passed over his lips. Then he moved her hand across his mouth, over to the left side of his face to feel the other side. As he ran her fingers over the scar on his left cheek, Lois became increasingly uneasy; this was an intimacy that she didn't want to share with someone who personified depravity.

"And now you know… what it _feels_ like… to have _scars_ like _these."_

He brought her fingertips back to his lips then pulled them away, an inch in front of his mouth. Another deep laugh, low and ominous, rumbled out of his chest. His eyes became hooded, and he playfully bit the tips of her fingers, holding them between his teeth as he ran his tongue over them.

Suddenly she became aware of something. She could feel how this newfound familiarity was affecting _him_.

There was a hardness growing, pressing into the top of her leg. His arousal. As it grew, he bit down on her fingers harder, yellow teeth digging into her skin, his laugh becoming more sinister.

Lois felt like she was going to be sick. Her throat was so dry she could only croak her disgust. He removed her fingertips from his lips and brought his mouth down on hers quickly, but only for a moment. He drew up again and looked down at her. "Let's wrap up this broadcast segment-ah, shall we? I'm, uh… a bit compromised at the momen _t,_ and not quite camera-friendly," the clown looked down at his own arousal, noticeable through his pants, "so I'm going to need you to be my modesty cloak so we don't get a NC-17 rating slapped on this little movie." He winked at her, propped himself up on his knees and reached for the camera.

He hoisted her up into a sitting position on the floor, positioning himself behind her as her support, knowing she didn't have the strength to keep upright on her own. He pulled her back into him, and he held her tightly, ensuring as much contact between their bodies as possible. He propped his chin on her shoulder, and told the camera he had one last question to ask…

________________________________

And now Lois lay on the floor, curled up in pain.

Everything hurt, but she was thankful for it. She wanted the physical agony. She _needed_ it. She needed the distraction of physical suffering to overtake the excruciating psychological torment.

She had never fathomed one could shoulder a remorse as great as hers.

As the Joker had spat his vile promise that the deaths of countless people were imminent, as retaliation against his public humiliation by the _Metropolis Live_ broadcast, Lois' stomach fell. People were going to die. People would die in horrible, unthinkable ways. People had _already_ died.

_Because this psychopath has a grudge. And I'm at the center of what caused it._

All of the destruction… all of the suffering that would unfold on innocents… her own terrifying kidnapping and torture… _all_ of it could be traced back to _her_. She was at the epicenter.

She had been only the messenger, the figurehead for a broadcast on which a team of people had collaborated. But for all the Joker cared, she, Lois Lane, _was_ the cause. He didn't differentiate. She knew he had no reason to.

His assumption of her sole responsibility was so intense that she began to question herself, wondering if, in fact, it were merited. Perhaps she really _was_ the one who deserved to be made an example of. Her paranoia infected her reason.

_Je m'appelle Pandora._

Lois cursed herself for her participation in the _Metropolis Live_ broadcast. Just one, inane television show presented with sensationalized ignorance… and now the world would burn for it. She was scared for everyone, she was sick with remorse, and the weight of it all threatened to crush her.

She couldn't bear it. The shame, the sorrow. The fear.

Most of all, the guilt.

Her fault. All of this. All her fault.

She needed the physical pain, to feel it, to take her out of her own mind. She craved it. _Cut me, punch me, burn me… let me feel what's on the outside so I don't feel what's on the inside._

A fleeting thought glanced on the water of her reflections: _Maybe this is why the_ he _thrives on pain. Perhaps he suffers under a weight so grave he seeks perpetual distraction from it as well. How greatly damaged must_ he _be, for him to unleash the destruction he does?_ She shook the thought from her head. Anyone capable of what he was couldn't be human.

And if he weren't human, he must be a demon. It would fit. She felt as though she were in hell.

The physical pain was abating as the numbness from shock was setting in. Suffocating under the oppressive crisis of conscience, her mind grasped and clawed for any other passing thought under which to bury the guilt. She fought to think of something else – anything else – or she would go as mad as the clown himself.

She took a deep breath, and brought herself back into the present, reminded of her own physical peril. She was so physically weak as to be fragile. She hated herself for her body's betrayal; too weak to fight, but not too weak to slip into the unconsciousness she wished for.

All she wanted was oblivion, but it wouldn't come. She had never felt so powerless in her life.

There was a word for someone in her situation: victim. She hated the word, and all it stood for. She didn't want to be a victim. She was raised to believe it was a choice, and something that only happened to those who let it happen.

She had witnessed individuals abuse the privileges that she believed the word conferred; some wearing the label brazenly as a badge of perverse honor, wielding it deftly as their carte blanche for exemption and escape. Lois detested people who so eagerly classified themselves as victims… but now, as her reason twisted in ways she didn't think herself capable of, she understood the appeal; the safety that the word imparted, the absolution from responsibility.

If she _were_ a victim, then this _wasn't_ her fault.

This revelation brought with it a waxing sense of solace. _No one would_ ask _for this. No one_ volunteers _to be the target of a monster's wrath. I couldn't have known this would happen. This isn't my fault._

Had she any tears left, she would have wept in relief. The revelation that her dreadful position wasn't a choice, but the result of horrible circumstance, was a salve on the wound of her conscience.

She felt anger stir in her, and that felt better than the guilt. She let herself feel the rage at everyone and everything that had landed her at the mercy of criminals who lacked remorse, at those who had _made_ her a victim.

And in her anger, Lois damned them. Each one of them, whose actions brought her to this point.

 _Damn you, Cheryl Lazlow, for coercing me into hosting_ Metropolis Live _._

_Damn you again, and your cavalier stupidity, for pushing us to run a sensationalism piece on a madman._

_Damn you, you mindless fools of Metropolis, for necessitating shows as devoid of merit as ours for your amusement._

_Damn you, Bruce Wayne, for drawing me out of Metropolis and into the hellhole that Gotham is._

_Damn you, Gotham Police, for not killing the Joker when you had the chance._

_Damn you, Superman, for not knowing where I am._

_Damn you, mom, for convincing me to go into journalism._

_Damn you, dad, for always pushing me to excel at any cost._

_Damn ALL of you._

The relief was short-lived, once the venom was out of her system. Her own sense of conscience rose once more to the surface, as she knew it inevitably would.

She could not escape it – every result and every consequence could be traced back to _her_. She couldn't perpetuate the delusion any longer.

_Damn YOU, Lois Lane, for getting yourself into this whole mess. Damn you for making this trip in the first place. Damn you for your lack of good sense. Damn you for not telling Bruce Wayne to go to hell. Damn you for letting Cheryl Lazlow talk you into digging your own grave with this broadcast. Damn you for taking the fucking job in the first place. Damn you for not settling for being a housewife in the suburbs. Damn you for your ambition and for trying to make something of yourself._

_It's all your fault. All of this. People will die because of you._ You're _going to die because of this. Damn you._

If she had any strength, she would have sobbed, but there was nothing left. She was defeated, exhausted in every way she could be, faltering in strength to damn the one person who deserved it the most…

He kicked the door open and came back into The Room, the infernal laugh preceding him, as he went for his bag in the corner, babbling about a trick with a pencil.

No, she didn't have any strength left to damn _him_. But she didn't need to.

After seeing the soulless black of his eyes at such close range, she knew.

He was already damned.

And he knew it, too.

________________________________

. . . . . . .

Author's Notes for "Scars and Damnation"

. . . . . . .

_I wanted to present the full picture of what happened when the camera was rolling... the other part that couldn't be heard or seen on the video that the men were watching. When Lois is slumped in defeat as the Joker recorded his threat that more killings were to come, I wanted to provide a context for the totality of her hopelessness._

_As Lois' guilt mounts, she takes a psychological detour through some very dark territory that the Joker has already been through, as she understands that sometimes pain is the only pleasure for those who seek to escape their own haunting._

_As strong as she tries to be, as bravely as she tries to process what's happening to her, it's inevitable that the denial would sink in as a defense mechanism, and she would blame everything outside of herself for her pain, no matter how irrational it would be. But in the end, her own strength of character is her downfall, as she can't escape from the responsibility she holds in the mayhem that will ensue._

_-4oC 2008.11.11_


	15. Madness

*** MADNESS ***

**Chapter 15**

**. . . . . . .**

The side of Lois' face was pressed to the floor.

The floorboards were cool where they made contact with her cheek. The smell of dust filled her nostrils. The floor was dirty, probably hadn't been swept in months. She had a detached awareness that the grime was likely affixing itself to her face from the beads of sweat, but she was indifferent. She didn't care how unsanitary the floor was, nor did she care to think how many other people had likely died on it… perhaps even in the very spot on which she now rested.

In the here and now, this floor was the only thing that offered her a footing of stability. It was solid, and it was real. She wasn't sure she could say the same for everything else that had transpired.

Her field of vision careened, and remorse rollicked her mind. She needed this physical anchor, no matter how unseemly it was to be lying atop grunge and filth.

She stared straight ahead at the corpse. She had become accustomed to it. As abhorrent as the idea was that she was only several feet away from a body that was in the early stages of decomposition, she was grateful that it was there. At least it meant she wasn't completely alone in the room…

…with _him._

A dead third party was better than no third party at all. She knew it made no logical sense, but it gave her comfort to know that there was another person in the room. Even if he wasn't breathing.

There was a scuffing sound as a man's footsteps approached. Two worn shoes walked into her field of vision, the tops brushed by the cuffs of purple pants.

The Joker sat himself in front of her on the floor, crossing his legs like a kid in a classroom, ready for story time. He tipped his head sideways, leaning down so that his cheek was also on the floor, and his face filled Lois' vision. The manic grin was back.

"Lois _Lane_ , Princess of Smut T. _V.,_ Queen of _Tartssssss…"_ His voice was almost melodious as he stated the words in a sing-song cadence. "I _really_ want to show you what I can do with a _pencil._ " He giggled, and brought his arm around and produced something long and thin, holding it between their faces, inches off the floor. Lois blinked it into focus. It was a brightly colored pencil, with cartoon Scooby Doo heads decorating the side. The eraser was neon blue. Lois could read the words "Zoinks, Scoob!" down near the point where it had been sharpened.

He twiddled it back and forth, alternately tapping the lead tip then the eraser end to the floor, the tickety-tock sound of his growing impatience made manifest with the prop. "This is one of my _favorite_ tricks" (smack) "with a pencil. I think you'll like it, too. See how sharp the point is?" He brought the tip precariously close to her eye to make sure he had her attention. He did. "That's one of the secrets to making the trick effective." He winked at her. "Got to make sure the point is _good_ and _sharp-ah._ "

He withdrew the pencil from its threatening position and sat up. Lois followed him with her eyes, but kept her face still. The Joker brought something else around from the side and rested it on one of his knees.

The embellished sound of a man clearing his throat jolted her momentarily. "All right, _Loissss…_ shall we begin?" He sounded giddy with anticipation.

Lois braced herself for the hit. She waited for the instrument to puncture her skin, piercing her at random. Would it be in her temple? Her stomach again? Maybe he would stab her with it in the leg a few times. The possibilities were endless.

Lois housed an understanding that she was in shock. As her mind combed over the myriad ways he could damage her with such a simple, commonplace object, it was almost… funny. There was a flash in her mind of a scene straight out of a tawdry TV crime drama - one depicting her body being discovered by the police, with a pencil lodged in her jugular, the lethal blow delivered by a writing utensil with pictures of a cartoon dog's head on it.

Except it wasn't funny, and it wouldn't _be_ funny when the excruciating pain hit full throttle after being stabbed by the Joker. It was fucking terrifying.

 _He_ would find it funny.

She tightened her jaw and squeezed her eyes shut, waiting for him to drive the pencil into her body.

"Gimme a noun."

A few heartbeats of silence passed. _What?_ She didn't think she heard him correctly.

He shifted slightly on his haunches. "Okay, _I'll_ start. To show you. Let's take the noun…' _tennis ball_ ', shall we?" Scribbling sounds on a piece of paper.

"Hmmmm… now I need an adjective." He tapped his pencil on the pad of paper, waiting. He cocked his head, and looked down at her. "Aaaad-jec-tiiiiiive," he drew out in a mocking condescension. "It's a word that _describes_ a noun." He scrunched up his forehead in disapproval. "Jeez, didn't you learn what an, ah, an adjective _was_ before you got that highbrow _diploma_ to hang on your wall? Your skills as a journalist aren't wowing me right now, Lois."

Lois was completely confused. _What... the hell... is he talking about?_ Her mind drew a blank. She stared at him with an open mouth.

He offered an idea. "How about… 'flaky'?" He scribbled it down. "Okay, I need another noun. This one will be pluralized." He looked down at her. He poked the neon blue eraser against the tip of her nose playfully, to punctuate his command: "Noun." No response from Lois. He poked her nose three more times, and in concert with the poking, he repeated, "Noun, noun, noun."

Lois still couldn't process what he was doing. "What are you talking about?"

He rolled his eyes and sighed in annoyance. "We're doing one of my favorite tricks with a _pencil._ " He flipped the tablet closed, and held it in front of her face so she could read the cover. MAD LIBS was printed in bold, white capital letters on a royal purple background, with a smiley face below it sticking out its tongue. He flipped the tablet open again to the page he'd been working on.

He scrutinized her face for a moment, bringing the pencil around again to poke her as a prompt for another word, when his eyes lit up. "Let's use the word 'nose'." He stuck his tongue out the side of his mouth in concentration as he wrote. She could hear the hard, angry strokes of the pencil make an impression into the paper, harsh divots that likely went several sheets down.

"Let's see what we've got so far." He held the tablet out in front of him and read aloud. "It was a dark and stormy _tennis ball."_ He widened his eyes, looking in her direction for dramatic effect. "Rain came down hard in _flaky noses."_ He brought his shoulders up as a horse-like bray of a noise burst forward. "Flaky _noses?"_ The cacophony of his laugh was drawn out and piercing.

After catching his breath, he continued. "Okay, now we need the name of someone in the room."

 _How hard did I hit my head?_ Lois wondered if she had a concussion.

He volunteered the name: "Ummmm… let's use ' _Lois'!"_

None of this was making any sense. Not more than fifteen minutes could have passed since his lurid sexual advances toward her, followed by the video footage wherein he promised that countless people in Gotham would be killed. _And now he wants to play a child's word game?_ The display of mercurial moods and the alacrity with which they shifted underscored her perception of him as unhinged. Lunatic.

He continued, oblivious to her confusion. "Name of someone not in the room. Ooh! Ooh!" He leaned down onto his side, propping himself up on one elbow, so he could get closer to eye-level with her. "I know – let's use _Batman!"_ The gleam in his eye was mischievous. He wrote the name down.

"Now we need another adjective." He looked down at her. A frown crossed his face. "You _know,_ Lois, you're not making this much _fun._ You need to par _tic_ ipate-ah." The eraser was back at the tip of her nose. He was pushing on her nose with insistence. "Ad-jec-tive." Poke, poke, poke.

Lois tried to swallow, but her tongue felt thick and her mouth was completely dry. She barely croaked out, "Green," her eyes on his vest. More specifically, on the blood stain down near the low front pocket. The same blood that Jones had noticed earlier.

Her blood.

The creases of his forehead smoothed. "That's better." He licked his lips and leaned down toward her. He lowered his voice, as if wanting to draw her into a confidence that the dead man on the floor couldn't hear. "It's _usually_ more fun when you _play along_." A salacious wink. "Not with _all_ tricks… but definitely with this one."

He wrote his adjective with more angry pencil lashes. His eyes widened. "Ooooh…heh, ha aha. Lois," he sucked in his cheeks, "we need another _noun."_ He bared his teeth with a knowing grin, running his tongue along the bottom corner of his ruby lips. "Make it a _baaaaad_ word. It'll be more _fun._ "

Lois' frame of reference for what a 'bad' word was had shifted seismically in the last several hours. Words for weapons or instruments of torture were definitely bad words from her standpoint. She eyed the brightly colored writing utensil with trepidation. Even a Scooby Doo pencil could be as deadly in his hands as a knife. As this thought crossed her mind, she absently verbalized the tail end of it:

"Knife."

She regretted it as soon as the word passed over her lips. _Oh, shit! Did I just say that out loud? Nice one, Lo. Put_ that _thought in his head, why don't you?_

He shook his head in disapproval. "Nuh uh." Lois felt herself lighten with relief.

"Nah, let's use the word… " The giggles started again. "Di- d—" He couldn't get the word out for his own laughter. "Dildo!"

A sharp cackle came roaring out from the bottom of his chest, and her heart skipped a beat from the force of the intensity. "Aha ha! Ha ha, he! Ha!" More frantic scribbling on the tablet. "Let's hear it from the top." He looked at her, biting his lower lip in mock anticipation.

"It was a dark and stormy _tennis ball._ Rain came down hard in _flaky noses._ 'Oh dear,' said _Lois._ 'I hope that _Batman_ meets me soon with a _green dildo!'"_

The Joker's hands opened, and both the pencil and the tablet dropped to the floor. He threw his head back, howling. He struck the floorboards a few times with the open palm of one hand, underscoring the hilarity of the joke in his own mind. "A… ah, a _GREEN… DILDO!"_ He practically choked on his own words.

His voice made Lois' head throb, and she winced with every guffaw. She slowly rolled over onto her back from her side, willing herself to get as far away from the headache-inducing sound as she could. It wasn't remotely amusing to her. Just asinine. She brought her hand up to her throat, massaging it as she tried to swallow.

The Joker saw her motion to her throat, and he slowly got to his feet, still laughing at the obscene visual. Lois tensed, wondering if he were annoyed by her lack of shared enthusiasm for the joke, and was going to rough her up a bit more to demonstrate his vexation. He crossed over toward the door, the laughter slowly dying down, his chest heaving from the effort exerted.

He opened the door and leaned out into the hallway. "Gentle _men!_ " His voice bellowed down the hallway and throughout the house.

He looked over at Lois, the smile not yet tiring from his face.

 _Oh my God. Why is he calling them up here? Is he angry that I won't laugh along with this stupid 'trick' of his? Is he going to give me over to them like he threatened earlier?_ Ice shot through her veins as she heard the heavy footfalls of several men coming up the stairs and down the hallway toward them.

She tried to prop herself up to scramble away. The Joker saw this and shook his head at her. (smack) "There's no use trying to _run,_ Loisssss."

Another man had joined the ranks. Lois counted three men in clown masks outside. The Joker stepped out into the hall with them, and said something too low for her to be able to hear. Every nerve in her body was on edge.

The clown stepped back inside, motioning for the men to enter. All three did as they were instructed, stepping inside The Room and facing her. She couldn't see their eyes from the distance they stood from her; she could only see the emotionless clown masks, painted in a palette of too-bright primary colors.

The Joker looked down at Lois, and held his gaze on her while giving the order to his men. "You know what to do, boys." He gestured in her direction with a sweeping motion of his arm. "Have at it."

_Oh dear God, this is it._

Lois screamed and balled herself up, not knowing if the assault would begin with them raining blows upon her, or if they would just cut right to the chase and proceed with the gang rape.

She felt the floorboards bend and creak as the weight of the men moved toward her. The sound shifted to the area above her head, then beyond. She heard a dragging sound. Lois peeked through her hands to see the men take pains to hoist up the sizeable corpse that had been her 'companion' in this bizarre comedy of the macabre.

The two larger men were able to lift up the body. The third man, more slender and clearly not in the Joker's employ for his muscle, hung back a bit and seemed to watch.

But he wasn't watching the body, or his colleagues. He was watching Lois.

She could see his eyes through the holes of the mask. What she saw sobered her.

The eyes didn't hold malice, or lust, or any hint of evil intentions. They showed only fear. Fear for _her_. It was Jones, and he couldn't hide his concern. She could see it clearly.

 _He's frightened for me._ He _is frightened for_ ME. _Dear God, what must be coming my way?_

"Out, out." The Joker waved his hands toward the door. "C'mon, get a move on." As Wallace and Curtis carried Mooney's body out the door, Jones stole one last glance over his shoulder at Lois. Their eyes met. It was just for a moment, but Lois knew.

She could read it in the faceless man's eyes.

She was a dead woman. And it wasn't going to be a pretty death, either.

The Joker closed the door behind his goons after they left, and turned to Lois once more. She didn't know if she should be relieved that no violation had come yet, or if she should brace herself for something even worse.

The Joker leaned up against the door, arms crossed across his chest. Laughter bubbled up again. Slow at first, then it hit a terrifying crescendo quickly, as he bent over and steadied himself with his hands on his knees. He raised his eyes to meet hers.

"Wha— what would the _Batman_ be doing running around Gotham with a _green dildo?"_ His laughter seemed never to end, a hellacious din of perverse humor chiming with gilded insanity.

________________________________

It was 9:30 pm, and Cheryl Lazlow was as mad as a hornet.

In an hour and a half, the next episode of _Metropolis Live_ was set to air. It was one of the few shows in that late evening timeslot that wasn't recorded earlier in the day for later playback. Every show was live, ensuring they kept their options open to be able to out-scoop the competition with late-breaking celebrity gossip or other headline-grabbing news stories.

Last night's broadcast about the Joker had drawn record ratings for the show, the highest since Cheryl had taken over as executive producer. She wanted to capitalize on the momentum and run a follow-up broadcast that delved further into the Joker phenomenon, offering more to whet Metropolis' growing appetite for him. All she had to work with was recycled clips from the previous night's show. She didn't want to have to resort to the back-burner story of a former boy band member's redemption through religion after going to prison for charges of drug possession.

Cheryl wanted her story on the Joker, and she wanted it tonight. Not tomorrow, or the day after.

Lois Lane was supposed to have gleaned more information about the Joker from Bruce Wayne (by way of fleshing out several facts about Bruce's private life for another future episode of _Metropolis Live_ ) when she was to have met with him earlier that afternoon, but she had gone missing. Seeking collaborative efforts on the investigation, the Gotham Police Department had shared with the Metropolis Police Department a video clip that the Joker had sent directly to their server. The video did prove that Lois apparently had been kidnapped against her will, but there was no extortion involved. Cheryl hadn't been allowed to watch the clip, she was only given a summary as to what unfolded on film.

From what she was told, the Joker shot the video himself, and made a few appearances on camera. Lois was caught on film as well, and appeared to be unharmed, aside from looking quite shaken up. There was alleged to have been a body in the room where she was being kept. The Joker had also made threats of violence against Gotham.

Unfortunately for Cheryl, she hadn't actually seen any of the video; this was only what she had been told by the investigating officers.

Naturally, she demanded a copy of the footage, but she was shut down. That didn't stop her from causing a scene and threatening to have people in the employ of the MPD fired. If she could get her hands on the video, it would be absolute gold. She could run it on the 11:00pm broadcast of _Metropolis Live_ , and she would be a made woman. It had danger. It had sensationalism. It had hints of sex. Her mind raced, churning out ideas for spinning Lois' kidnapping into a sexually based conquest by the Joker: Clown Rapist At Large Kidnaps Helpless Reporter As Sex Slave! Yes, that had a catchy ring to it, and would draw in the viewers. Kinky smut always drew in the channel surfers.

Cheryl was on the verge of being giddy at the prospect of how many ways this could work in her favor.

However, time was not on her side, and she wasn't one who liked to lose when she set her sights on a goal. She wasted no time in letting everyone within earshot know of her displeasure and outrage at being denied access to the video footage.

Sergeant Tobias Rafalski of the Metropolis Police Department had had about all he could take from Cheryl Lazlow. He sat in her office, stone-faced as she spewed her profane venom, pointing an accusatory finger in his face and threatening his job, along with those of the other Metropolis faithful who had served on the force with distinction.

Her tirade continued, and it always came back to the same question. Sergeant Rafalski anticipated it before the words came out of her mouth. She slammed her fist on her desk in indignation. "Damn it, Sergeant, don't you know who I am?"

 _The biggest fucking bitch in Metropolis, that's who._ "Ma'am, I understand your frus—"

"You understand nothing!" She spun on him quickly, pointing at him from behind her desk. "You call yourself an officer of the law? If you allow us to broadcast that video on tonight's show, there's a chance that someone might see it and recognize something that could save our reporter's life!"

Rafalski eyed her with contempt. He had an excellent bullshit detector, and he knew that Ms. Lazlow didn't give a damn what happened to Lois Lane. She was just looking for her ratings.

The Sergeant drew a deep breath. "Ms. Lazlow, I'd like to remind you that the reason this kidnapping took place was in response to the episode that you aired last night."

Cheryl glared at the officer with frosty intent over the frames of her glasses. She crossed her arms, the whisper of a Dolce and Gabbana silk shirt sliding against itself. "Are you suggesting that this is somehow _our_ fault? That _we_ are responsible for a madman kidnapping a reporter and threatening the safety of a city?"

He stood up and hooked his thumbs under the belt at his waist. "I'm saying that none of this happened until after you ran the broadcast about the Joker. I don't think it's a coincidence, do you?"

She huffed at him, leaning back into the deep back of her high leather desk chair. "That's not for me to determine. You're the police officer, it's _your_ job to do the detective work. Isn't that what our taxes pay you to do?"

Rafalski balled his fists at his sides. "Ms. Lazlow, that footage is part of a police investigation. We can't have the video disseminated to the public for entertainment purposes. It would compromise the integrity of our case, and it would open the floodgates for every Tom, Dick and Harry out there to swamp both our police station and the GPD with crank phone calls and bogus claims to know something about the case."

She seized the opening he had provided. "That is my point exactly, officer! What if there _is_ someone out there who knows where Ms. Lane is, but we don't get that information in time to save her life because the MPD refused our generous offer to assist with the investigation?" She narrowed her eyes. "Could you live with yourself if Ms. Lane were to turn up dead at the hands of this madman because you didn't accept an opportunity to receive help from the public?" _And if Lois_ does _turn up dead, what a sensation that will be for our show... we'll finally crack that Neilson ratings ceiling we keep bumping up against, and gain at least a point. Maybe two._

The Sergeant didn't back down. "Ma'am, we believe that because we _are_ dealing with a madman, it wouldn't be wise to provoke him any further. That coverage was sent to the GPD exclusively for a reason. I don't think that taking a few facts on hearsay and putting a spin on them—"

"We don't 'spin' anything, Sergent Rafalski!" She was practically shouting at him in indignation.

His jaw set and he matched her ire. "We all know _exactly_ what your show does when it presents quote-unquote 'facts'," he motioned by hooking his fingers in the air. "You look to present any story you can get your hands on in the most base way possible."

There was a knock in at the door, and Jimmy Olson stood in the open doorframe. His eyes darted back and forth between Cheryl Lazlow and Sergeant Rafalski. "Excuse me, M—Ms. Lazlow?"

"James Olson, you'd better have a damned good reason for interrupting us." She threw her glasses down onto her desk and glared at him, her eyes two hot embers.

Jimmy swallowed. "IT wanted you to know that the servers were compromised a few minutes ago. A compressed video just appeared on the servers, piggy-backing with a batch file. I saw the first minute or so of the video. It's from the Joker." Jimmy's face was as white as his shirt.

Cheryl sat up straight in her chair in triumph, and eyed the Sergeant. "Oh, really? Sent directly to us?"

The police officer shot her a look. "I strongly advise you against making any part of that video public. This investigation is still in its infancy, and any comp—"

She interrupted him, looking back at Jimmy. "So James, did Lois appear in the video? Did she appear harmed in any way?" She feigned concern like the masterful charlatan that she was. She wanted to confirm that it was the same video that the police had in their possession.

Jimmy nodded frantically. "Yeah, Lois was hurt." His voice cracked, and his eyes started to well with tears.

Both the Sergeant and Cheryl stiffened. Rafalski shot her a look. "That wasn't in the original feed. She wasn't harmed. This is a new video."

Cheryl completed his thought. "An updated video... newer footage." Ah, this had delicious possibilities. "How badly did Lois appear to be hurt, James?"

"It looked like she'd been cut, maybe even stabbed." His eyes darted frantically back and forth between the Sergeant and Cheryl, searching in vain for some hint of reassurance from them that everything would be alright.

Instead, a crackle came through the radio on the officer's belt. He brought the receive up to his mouth, stepping out of the room, pushing past Olson. "This is Rafalski…"

Jimmy looked at Cheryl with pleading eyes. "What are they going to do to help her?"

Cheryl came out from around her desk and walked over to Jimmy with purpose. "James, we're going to do everything we can to trace Lois' whereabouts. If we can broadcast the video on tonight's show, there's a good chance that someone out there will recognize something and give us a lead."

Jimmy looked at her skeptically. "Ms. Lazlow, the video is brutal. I don't think we can even show it on television."

Cheryl smiled. "My dear boy, there is almost nothing that you can't show on television."

"But what about Lois' privacy? What about preserving her dignity? I don't want people to see her like _that_!"

Cheryl placed her hand on Jimmy's shoulder. "Take me down to see this video, James. We have to remember that in the end, Lois' safety is more important than her dignity. If we broadcast the video, it could save her life." She smiled, cold machinations clicking into place inside her mind.

As Jimmy led her downstairs, he wished that Clark were in town. Kent was a good guy to talk to, and Jimmy really needed a friend to help him process what was happening with Lois.

_Of all the times that Kent had to be sent on assignment to the Antarctic to cover a global warming piece._

Jimmy shook his head. Clark wouldn't be in range of a cell phone, radio tower or television for a few days. He might not even hear about anything until he made it all the way back to Metropolis.

Jimmy prayed that Lois would still be alive by then.

________________________________

. . . . . . .

Author's Notes for "Madness"

. . . . . . .

_I chose the name for this chapter because both sections could be described by the word:_

_The Joker's sense of spirited play is completely incongruous to the heinous plans he has for Gotham and for Lois. The darker the Joker becomes, I envision his quest for levity taking increasingly bizarre turns._

_Cheryl Lazlow's unquenchable thirst for power and clout is also a form of madness, bending her reason and obliterating any sense of altruism that she may once have harbored._

_-4ofCups, 2008.11.14_


	16. A Rogue Among Rogues

*** A ROGUE AMONG ROGUES ***

**Chapter 16**

**. . . . . . .**

Vinnie Maroni needed to cut loose. It had been another ugly scene in the back parlor of his restaurant Rogue, thanks to the clown.

Very, very ugly.

Shortly after 5:00 that evening, Maroni himself had escorted Lois Lane into the private meeting room, under the auspices of Bruce Wayne awaiting her in a secluded alcove, set off from the main dining facility. She followed him to the back without any suspicion, apparently absorbed in her own foul mood, mumbling something unflattering under her breath about the billionaire brat. Whatever it was, Maroni would have been inclined to agree. He, too, resented any man born with a silver spoon in his mouth.

The thick, soundproof walls of a wine closet separated the parlor from the public area, allowing for covert mob meetings night or day. If someone needed to be… reprimanded with a Smith & Wesson 9mm semi-automatic, and subsequently escorted from the back of the building wrapped in plastic painters' drop cloths, the fine citizens of Gotham who dined in the main hall would be none the wiser. The alcohol would still flow, champagne glasses would still clink together in celebratory toasts, and the braised lamb would arrive without incident, belying the fact that someone's brain matter decorated a wall in the back room courtesy of a skull-piercing bullet.

It could be said that the parlor facilitated the discretion necessary for Maroni and his men to conduct their business in Gotham.

The clown learned of the room by happenstance, when he had made a surprise drop-by visit shortly after his escape from Arkham earlier that year. He had come to remind Vinnie of the arrangement between himself and the late Salvatore Maroni, Vinnie's half-brother: the mob would continue to clear a wide berth for him, particularly because his stint in Arkham had not satiated his thirst for chaos, but elevated it. In the course of his short visit, the Joker had managed to stab a busboy and slit the throat of one of Maroni's hired security staff.

 _Security staff._ Maroni snickered in contempt at that thought. _There is no such thing as_ security _when the clown is around._ He had never been able to get the blood from the brutal attacks out of the carpet, and he hadn't yet made the time to coerce a carpenter in Gotham into tearing out the bloodied carpet without notifying the GPD or asking questions.

So much the better. After the Joker's visit this evening, any new carpeting would have had to be replaced again.

After Lois had come through the parlor door, Maroni closed it behind her quickly. She didn't notice this for the distraction of a young man standing in front of her, with his eyes wide open, face contorted in agony. As she stopped and puzzled at his expression, one of the Joker's goons in a clown mask stepped forward from behind the door and smothered her mouth with a cloth soaked in chloroform. She was out in a matter of seconds. Fast, efficient.

The same could not be said for the young man who served as the distraction.

Right before Lois walked in, the Joker had shot the man in the back twice with a bb gun. Not with the intention to kill him, just to inflict enough pain that Lois' attention would be drawn to him, allowing for the stealth attack. After watching Lois being carried out unconscious by two of his crew, the Joker tended to some business with the young man who remained behind, two bb's lodged just inches from the fourth lumbar vertebra of his spine. His name was Sticks.

Maroni reflected. Maybe it wasn't Sticks, but Styx. Like the river of death in the underworld of Hades. It would have befitted the situation. The kid needed two coins placed in his eyes only minutes later for the ferryman's journey.

Maroni didn't know what the young guy had done to offend the Joker, not that it really mattered. The Joker didn't need a motive. The kid opened and closed his mouth mute while looking at the Joker with pleading eyes. He reminded Vinnie of a fish out of water swallowing air. The Joker had walked up to him with a menacing gait, head cocked at an accusatory angle. He had leaned over to whisper something in Sticks' ear, reaching into the kid's jacket to remove an envelope. He slipped it into his own inside coat pocket, and backed slowly away.

After the two crewmen had brought Lois out to the secure garage and loaded her surreptitiously into a service van, one of them came back.

And he had brought with him brass knuckles, a baseball bat and a machete.

A goddamned _machete._

He handed the brass knuckles to the Joker, who slipped them on over the purple glove of his right hand, never removing his eyes from the kid's. Sticks had tried in vain to make a break for the door to run back out through the front of the restaurant, but the Joker was upon him with frightening speed before he was even an arm's length away from the door.

There had been the brutal sound of metal crushing bone. The wails and fruitless protests from the young man. After breaking Stick's jaw and clavicle, the Joker had slipped off the brass knuckles, tossed them to his cohort, and exchanged them for the baseball bat. He used Stick's ankles and torso as batting practice. It reminded Vinnie of a birthday party he had attended in grade school, in the poor Hispanic section of Gotham; some fat fuckin' kid from his home class had invited everyone to his birthday party, and there had been a piñata strung up in the back courtyard of the low-rent apartments.

That's what the Joker reminded him of – the fat-ass Mexican kid named Juan (or José or Jorge, or whatever-the-fuck the spick's name was) waling on a piñata to get to the sweets inside. Though an obese kid yearning for candy couldn't have shown more enthusiasm for the task than the Joker had, as the blows came down with increasing force.

When Sticks lay coughing up blood, body rocking in violent spasms from the grievous internal injuries and excruciating pain, the Joker had set the bat down.

Then came the machete.

Vinnie Maroni was no saint. He had sent more than his share of Gotham's citizens to bed six feet under. Yet as he watched the Joker work, his blood ran cold, bearing witness to the clown's poverty of conscience as it played out in front of him. No, Vinnie was no saint… but there were two things he had never done:

He had never dismembered a dead man, limb by limb, with a machete.

He had never dismembered a _live_ man, limb by limb, with a machete.

And, for the love of Christ, if he _had_ …

…then he sure as hell would have started with the head and worked his way _down_.

The clown started with the feet and was working his way _up_.

Sticks had been conscious as the limbs came off.

Sickened by the gore, but too intrigued to look away, Vinnie turned his attentions from the victim to the assailant. He watched the Joker warily, careful not to get caught looking, lest the machete swing in his direction. The clown's make up was starting to wear just a bit. Seems that he had worked up a bit of a sweat in his gusto.

Had Vinnie not seen the flesh of the man beneath the make up, he would have sworn that the Joker was a demon incarnate. It would have been almost comforting to believe he was. To think that a man could be capable of such violence without a trace of mercy scared the shit out of him. Even Vinnie's own didn't go to those extremes.

The blood and gore had been beyond anything Vinnie had ever seen in all his years, the scope nearly incomprehensible. After the Joker had finished with Sticks, his crew dutifully brought in their trash bags, and piled what was left of him into the sacks, carrying limbs and entrails away as efficiently as possible.

Surprisingly, for all the splatter, very little of it seemed to end up on the Joker.

Or perhaps it had, but couldn't be seen for the rich purple of the coat and pants. Maybe there was some design behind the bizarre choice of outfits after all.

"I would ah, like to _thank_ you, Vinnie, for your" (smack) "hospitality, for allowing me use your _fine dining establishment_ in which to conduct my _business."_ He nodded down in the direction of the carpet. "Yeeeaaahhhh…" He licked his lips and gestured with a fluttering motion with one gloved hand. "Sorry about that."

Vinnie had shrugged his shoulders. "Don't worry about it. I'll take care of it." _Now get the fuck out of here you clown-faced fucking FREAK._

The Joker turned to leave, his purple coat swinging in a wide arc with the quick rotation of his body. He stopped abruptly and lifted a hand in the air, pointing to the ceiling as he remembered one last task.

"Ah… speaking of taking _care_ of things," he turned slowly to face Vinnie one last time. "There's one more thing that I need you to take _care_ of for me." He ran his tongue over his bottom lip.

Maroni had hoped that when the body had been removed, the clown's need for him had expired for the evening. Clearly he had hoped too soon. _Jesus Christ, now what?_ Vinnie held his breath.

"I'll be sending one of my boys over to another one of your fine _upstanding establishmentsssss."_ Irony coated his words like blood on a butcher's block. "I'd like to, ah, aha heh, _borrow_ a little something from your fancy shmancy Esss and Emmm club-ah." He drew out the words as salaciously as he could.

The color drained from Vinnie's face. "What do you mean, 'a little something'?" _Does he want me to send one of the girls from Flesh for Fantasy over for some private entertainment? One of the_ guys? _It could be_ anything _with this freak._

The ridge of the scar along the inside of the Joker's left cheek felt smooth. He ran the tip of his tongue over it, back and forth while he eyed Vinnie. He nodded toward the back door. "You got a look at Mizzzz Lane when she came through the front door, mmmmm?"

Vinnie nodded slowly, not sure where this was going.

"Well, Vinn _ieeeee_... I am a man with _tastes_ that run to, ah, shall we say, the _eccentric_?" His trademark grin spread across his face. A guttural laugh rumbled from his chest.

 _Is that a statement? Is that a question? Is he looking for me to answer him?_ Vinnie shrugged his shoulders and tipped his head in concession, hoping the machete wouldn't make an encore appearance for an unintentional slight.

The Joker continued, "I would like to pick up a little something for Mizzzz Lane to _wear_ , courtesy of your en-ter-tain-ment lounge."

Vinnie exhaled. Not as bad as he had thought.

"What I'm thinking is…" the Joker's voice trailed off as he looked to the side. "I'm thinking that we'll be in the market for something from the _submissive_ end of the spectrum. Got anyone at your Esss and Emmm place who's the same size as Mizzzz Lane?"

Vinnie thought for a moment, then nodded. "Pink Sarah. Tell your man to ask for Pink Sarah, they'll know who he means. And tell him to tell her that I gave the okay."

The Joker smirked. "Well if she's a true submissive, my man should be able to just _take_ an outfit and she wouldn't protest, would she?" He raised his eyebrows.

Vinnie wasn't in the mood to play semantics games with the clown.

The Joker considered the name. "Mmmmmm... pink. Pink has a nice ringggg to it." He startled Vinnie with a gruff sound that sounded something like a wild dog's bark. "I _like_ it-ah!" He threw his head back and shook it energetically from side to side, growling with ferocity, " _Like_ it! _Like_ it!"

 _God help the woman your men just carried out of here._ His gut clenched. "Tell your man to enter in the side alley. There will be a bouncer at the back door named Julian. Have him tell Julian to call me to approve entry."

The Joker scowled. "What, no clubhouse password or secret knock to get in?"

Vinnie shook his head. "No. I'm the only one who gives permission for anyone other than my performers or VIP's to go in through the back. Unless Julian already knows who's comin' no one gets through. Makes things cleaner."

The Joker nodded. "I'll send one of my men over in 20 minutes." As he glided to the door, he asked over his shoulder, "Got any _plaaaans_ for the evening, Vinnie?" His lips curled back like a rabid wolf.

 _Aside from cleaning up the slop you left on the floor, nothing outstanding._ He offered a weak smile. "My dance card's not full yet, if that's what you're askin'."

"Mmmmmm," the Joker narrowed his eyes. "If you happen to be near a television this evening, tune in. I have a feeling there might be a show or two on worth watching."

After the clown was gone, Vinnie stared at the bloodstain. It honest-to-God looked like a can of red paint had been kicked over.

And out in the dining hall, no one had heard a thing.

 _Soundproof walls. At least we got_ that _goin' for us._

Yes, Vinnie needed to cut loose and unwind from the clown's visit. Blood splattered carpet meant all business dealings were off the calendar until a secured location was found as a substitute. That entailed phone calls, promises, threats and an entire evening spent spinning tales that would protect the clown. No one could know he was there. The last person that Vinnie Maroni wanted on his tail was the Joker.

Vinnie didn't know what the Joker's intentions were with the reporter. She wouldn't enjoy it, whatever it was. He just had to make sure that no one could trace her disappearance back to him in any way.

He checked his watch. Now it was 10:30 pm and he had only just tied up the last loose end caused by the Joker's unwelcomed appearance at Rogue. He walked down the alley to the side door of Flesh For Fantasy. The Joker's man would have come and gone several hours ago, so there would be no threat of him running into one of the clown's henchmen. That was good. He wanted to put that scene as far from his mind as he could.

Indeed. It was time to put it behind him with some kinky adult entertainment.

He patted Julian on the shoulder as he entered the through the side door. Julian tipped his head at his boss, and stood cross-armed in front of the door after it closed, his hulking physique nearly filling the doorframe behind him.

Down the alley, obscured from sight from behind a green dumpster, a camera clicked.

The Batman had visual confirmation that Vinnie Maroni had just entered Flesh for Fantasy.

He had spent the last hour dissecting the second video feed that Gordon had sent him, running it on a loop. He watched it again and again, trying to gauge what probable course the Joker would take next. Thus far, the Batman had anticipated the likelihood of his adversary's plans with a high degree of acuity, but he knew that anything could change. Nothing with the Joker was ever certain. Capriciousness was one of the traits that made him dangerous. One of many.

At the close of the second video, the Joker had warned of impending grand-scale destruction, and it did sound as though he'd be driving the public in a panic toward channels of mass transportation, despite his promise to the contrary. The Batman hoped that the forewarning he had given to Gordon was enough for the Commissioner to assemble some measure of defense to the attack that was imminent.

The Batman thought of the innumerable ways the casualties could mount tonight.

He thought of the madman's promise to make his pain Gotham's.

He thought of his own banishment.

And as he watched the video play - Lois struggling against the Joker, beaten, wounded and defeated…

… he thought of Rachel. He couldn't let that happen again.

He loved the city of Gotham, the hope she once harbored and he sought to protect her. He had given everything he had in serving Gotham, holding himself accountable to a higher moral code than the rest. He played neither judge nor executioner to the denizens of criminals, serving instead merely to corral the criminals for the city to incarcerate or rehabilitate.

But maybe he had been wrong.

Things had changed. _Everything_ had changed since the Joker left the wide wake of destruction before his Arkham incarceration.

The Batman feared the day it would finally come to this – his own willingness to abandon upholding a universal justice for everyone in order to meet out punishment to those _he_ deemed most deserving of it.

It was what Harvey Dent had fallen prey to that precipitated his very death: reckless, vigilante justice.

But maybe Harvey had been right.

Maybe the _Joker himself_ had been right. The only way to stop him…

…was to kill him.

Kill the Joker. Or die trying. If the Joker's death brought about his own, wouldn't it serve Gotham's greater need? He saw no reason to protect the individual liberties of one man - a vengeful psychopath - if any others could end up suffering for it.

The clown was calling him out, daring him to take challenge. The Batman was ready. He knew what he had to do.

In a blur of fluid black stealth, Julian lay unconscious at the steps to Flesh For Fantasy, his 280 pounds of muscle and brawn toppled without resistance in a heartbeat.

Behind him, the door stood ajar in its frame, and the sleek basalt cloth of a cape swept inside.

________________________________

. . . . . . .

Author's Notes for "A Rogue Among Rogues"

. . . . . . .

_I wanted to paint the scene illuminating how Lois ended up on that floor in The Room in the first place, offering the context that the Joker had already committed an atrocious killing before his fun with her began. He was good and warmed up for the games to begin long before she woke up._

_The Joker's poison is so potent, infecting and choking off every part of the Batman's existence, I see him being pushed to the point where he realizes he can't continue to apply the same sense of justice to the clown that he reserves for others. Unless he kills the madman, everything will play out just as it had when Rachel was killed. This is a painful realization that perhaps the Joker knows him better than he knows the Joker, and maybe even better than he knows himself._

_The Joker has seeped into the dark crevasses of the Batman's mind, and the only way to get him out is to kill him. Which, of course, could be exactly what the Joker wants... leaving a psychologically fractured shadow of a man in the Batman's place._

_-4ofCups, 2008.11.15_


	17. The Wing of Lucifer

*** THE WING OF LUCIFER ***

**Chapter 17**

**. . . . . . .**

Mooney's body was awkward to move. He was heavy, he was large, and neither Curtis nor Wallace wanted to get close enough to the gore that had been his face.

Wallace had the unpleasant task of having to carry the weight of the body close to Mooney's head, while Curtis had taken the lower legs and feet. Wallace tried not to look directly into the gaping hole that had been Mooney's left cheek. A few times he'd nearly lost his footing as they went down the narrow staircase, thanks to their vision being compromised by the fucking clown masks. Each time he thought he was going to drop Mooney, his vision would slip downward and he'd see it. He'd see the shredded skin and bone and congealed blood. He'd look away again as quickly as he could.

Mooney had been dead almost twenty-four hours. This was the longest that they had ever kept the body of one of their own colleagues around before disposing of it. Everything about it gave Wallace the creeps.

Particularly the part about the Joker insisting that Mooney's body be moved into The Room, where he had spent the last few hours with the kidnapped reporter.

 _What kind of a sicko would want to keep a fucking corpse around to look at?_ Wallace understood that the Joker worked by intimidation, and that he was willing to engage in a lot of behaviors that just weren't... _normal_. As a result, no man was more feared in Gotham. The Batman had once held that distinction, but since disappearing about a year ago, the Joker had claimed the throne, inspiring more terror than anyone. Mooney's body would have been a means to that end, likely kept around by the Joker to rattle the girl. It must have worked in spades, based on her terrified reaction when he, Curtis and Jones entered the room. Maybe the Joker had told her that they were actually the ones who killed Mooney, and that they were going to do the same to her if she didn't behave.

Or, maybe the Joker told her outright that _he_ was the one who put three rounds in Mooney's head. Maybe he had told her nothing at all. One could never be sure with the clown.

When they got Mooney down to the main level of the house, Curtis dropped his end of the body unceremoniously onto the floor. The momentum of the dead man's heft pulled his upper body right out of Wallace's grasp, and Mooney's corpse sprawled at their feet on the floor with a sickening thud. Jones stepped over the body and went down to the basement to get tarpaulin to wrap him in. Mooney would be going for a little ride.

Barker was in the basement at the computer, with a small digital TV next to it. The fruits of his labor were being broadcast on Gotham Cable News. When Jones came down the stairs, Barker turned to him and squeaked in pride. "Look! The last video feed is everywhere on TV!" Barker had fixed the video to run on an endless loop, superceding all other broadcast programming on GCN. The ABC, NBC and CBS affiliates in Gotham were also running breaking news specials based on the Joker's latest video. Law enforcement and counter terrorist specialists were weighing in with their perspectives on whether the city should be evacuated, criminologists offered their professional opinions in speculation as to what the Joker's next move would be, and news analysts were crying out for the Mayor or Police Commissioner to make a public statement.

The Joker was dominating everything. It was chaos.

Jones eyed the TV with little enthusiasm. He and Wallace had just been tasked by the Joker to add to the mayhem. Jones guessed that in another hour's time or so, the official casualty counts as tracked by the media would start to climb even higher, and he would be instrumental in that cause.

It was madness. Unchecked madness, and Jones wondered what type of karmic debt he had racked up in a former life to be mired in such a vast scale of horror in this one.

He pulled a large sheet of tarpaulin off the wall, uncovering a sizeable score of semiautomatic weapons the Joker had managed to intercept from a deal the Mob brokered involving some insurgents outside of Minsk, Belarus. There was even a ground-to-air missile launcher in the haul. Jones was unnerved by his own indifference to the weapons.

Barker got out of his chair. "Why are you taking that?"

Jones didn't make eye contact. "We need something to wrap Mooney's body in."

"Are you guys going to bury him?"

"No." Jones couldn't believe what they were about to do. "He wants us to take Mooney's body out to the Winter Hill Overpass and drop him onto the freeway." It was one of the heaviest traffic arteries in Gotham, night or day. Any freak accident would cause a multiple car pile up, and casualties could easily reach the double digits. Maybe even triple digits.

Barker's mouth hung open behind his mask. "So you, Curtis, Wallace and Sticks are all heading out right now? Does Mr. Joker want you to take another camera with you to film it?"

Jones winced at hearing Sticks' name. Barker hadn't been told yet about Sticks. Jones pulled his clown mask off and ran his hand down the front of his face, as if to wipe the day's events from his countenance and from his mind. He looked over at Barker. "Sticks is dead."

Barker's eyes widened. "When did that happen?" Barker had taken a bit of a shine to the young man, drawn to his boyish looks and lanky form. Of course, no one would ever approximate the magnificence that _was_ Mr. Joker.

"This afternoon. The Joker wanted to teach him a lesson."

Barker straightened up at hearing it was Mr. Joker who was responsible. That made it okay. "What lesson?"

Jones reached for the banister rail as he ascended the steps. "Sticks didn't act quick enough on an order that the Joker had given him."

Barker nodded, grateful and inwardly gloating that _he_ had always done exactly what Mr. Joker wanted, as quickly as he could. _He_ was a dutiful henchman. He knew that Mr. Joker saw it, and would reward him for it.

When he reached the top of the stairs, Jones completed the picture for Barker:

"He also wasn't happy that Sticks had called him 'dude'."

When Jones came back into the foyer with the tarpaulin, both Wallace and Curtis were sharing an inside joke. Their laughter was low, and they elbowed each other conspiratorily.

Curtis looked at Jones. "Hey man, you gotta hear what Wallace did."

Jones didn't really give a shit what had Wallace done, and he wasn't in the mood to hear about it. "That's okay, you can tell me later when we get back." Jones was incredulous that they would even entertain the thought of dawdling with a story. Sticks had been put through about as painful a death as he had ever seen only hours earlier, partly because he hadn't acted quickly enough on the Joker's instructions, and yet these two idiots wanted to waste time recounting a story instead of getting their asses out the door as the Joker ordered.

Jones motioned to Wallace to help him wrap Mooney up in the tarp. While they worked, Curtis lay the foundation for the story: "So check this out, right? After we bring the bitch back here, our boy Wallace—" Curtis slapped Wallace hard on the shoulder in a show of approval. "—he takes the Lincoln back out with instructions from the boss to pick up something for that TV hottie to wear. An' guess where he goes?"

Jones made no show that he was listening, but it didn't deter Curtis from letting the cat out of the bag: "Flesh for Fantasy! Wallace picked up some bondage outfit for Little Miss Sugar Tits to wear, on Boss' orders!" He leaned over and held out a fist to Wallace, who grinned and skinned his cohort.

Wallace nodded upward, toward the staircase to the upper level of the house. To The Room. "Yeah, so Boss tells me I'm supposed to pick up some outfit from a girl named Pink Sarah, if you can believe that shit. She's a submissive." He grinned, and looked at Curtis.

Curtis nodded, barely able to contain his laughter. "Tell him, man. Tell him what else!"

Jones didn't know if he wanted to hear what else. This was already turning his stomach.

Wallace puffs out his chest in pride. "So I'm there, right? And I put this chick's outfit in the bag – and she was a hot piece of ass, too, I gotta say – and I'm about to leave when I see this big blonde dyke of a broad walk through the dressing room."

"A dominatrix!" Curtis was practically jumping up and down.

"Right, the kind you would _not_ want to mess with, let me tell you. Swedish, maybe Dutch." Wallace glanced in the direction of the stairs again, then lowered his voice, as if to keep the surprise from reaching the Joker's ears. "So I think to myself, 'I'll just throw a little bonus action into the bag,' you know, something from this dom's locker. In case Boss wants to see his little girlfriend upstairs model a few other outfits. So I grabbed a few of the dom's toys, and stuck them in the bag as well!" Wallace was beaming, pleased with the coupe, believing he had just curried the ultimate favor with the Joker.

Curtis pumped his fist in Wallace's direction. "Stroke of genius, man. Boss'll love that shit!"

Wallace looked over at Jones and shrugged. "I just slipped the bag upstairs, and left it outside The Room. It was weird, Boss was specific about when he wanted it dropped it off." He looked at his watch. "I was right on time, for whatever he's doing, I guess."

 _I don't want to know, I don't want to know._ Jones urged his colleagues forward, the vision of Sticks' dismembered body still fresh in his mind. "C'mon, we need to get outta here _now._ All of us have deliveries to make, and we know what happens if we don't move fast." Jones bent down to pick up Mooney's body, and Wallace reluctantly pitched in. While he and Wallace were set to scale the Winter Hill Overpass to drop Mooney's body into traffic, Curtis had been instructed to plant the remains of Sticks' body in selected cars in the Gotham subway, leaving the limbs to be discovered in a gruesome Easter egg hunt fashion.

With concerted effort, they loaded Mooney's body into the service van. Jones climbed into the driver's seat and started the car. Wallace climbed into the passenger seat.

Curtis got behind the wheel of the old Lincoln, with Sticks' body in numerous plastic trash bags in the trunk. Curtis lowered the window and yelled over to Wallace as he pulled out of the lot. "Damn, man, you are one lucky mother fucker. I mean, Flesh for Fantasy? That's supposed to be the best S&M club in Gotham! I can only imagine the stuff you saw. Tell me about it when we get back."

Watching Curtis drive off, Wallace slapped his knee and turned to Jones. He shook his head. "I'll do better than that, man. I'll _show_ him what I saw."

Jones pulled the van out into the street and headed in the opposite direction from Curtis. His attention was distracted by Wallace, who was suddenly making frantic jerking movements with his body.

"Oh, shit. Oh, shit, man! Shit! _SHIT!_ " He was slapping at his chest frantically, twisting in his seat, reaching underneath him. "Aw, fuck me! _FUCK ME!"_

Jones was starting to feel his colleague's alarm. "Jeez, man, what is it?"

Wallace had gone completely white. "I left my cell at Flesh for Fantasy."

Jones' jaw dropped. "You _what?_ " Each of their phones had sensitive information in it. Information that could potentially lead back to their location, and to the Joker. "How the hell did that happen?"

Wallace leaned back in the seat and rubbed his hands vigorously over his face. "I was taking pictures with it of some of the customers. You know, thinking we could give them to the Joker as a blackmail card. I set it down to grab some of that dom's stuff…"

Jones shook his head. "We are all _dead_ men if that phone ends up in the wrong hands."

Wallace felt like he was going to puke. He was already turning scenarios in his mind regarding what type of punishment the Joker would levy on him if he found out. None of them involved his seeing another day. "I know. We've got to go back for it. After we pitch Mooney, we've got to go back."

Jones nodded, knowing they had no choice. He, too, wondered if it would be possible to fix this mess without the Joker finding out about it.

And he wondered if Wallace's mistake would be taken out on all of them if the Joker _did_ find out.

________________________________

As Jones and Wallace headed in the direction of the Winter Hill Overpass, and as Curtis sped toward the downtown crossing of Gotham's subway, Barker climbed the stairs from the basement to the first floor.

All of the other crew members were gone. He was the only one left.

He was the only one left in the house with Mr. Joker, aside from the kidnapped reporter. But she didn't really count.

Barker felt something close to intoxication at the thought of being in the house with Mr. Joker, without the derisive looks and caustic remarks being made at his expense by his colleagues. This was a momentous day. Mr. Joker had entrusted him with the most important responsibility of his plans, the dissemination to the media. Mr. Joker trusted him. Mr. Joker had called him his _little pal_.

Mr. Joker was a diety.

And they had a bond. Barker could just feel it.

He wanted to suffocate under the weight of the clown's brilliance. He wanted to absorb the dark and terrifying power that he radiated. He just had to be near the Clown Prince of Crime.

Yes, he just _had_ to. To be so close to a god and not revel in his glory was almost unbearable.

And so he decided that he _would._

Barker would be quiet. He wouldn't disrupt anything. He just had to be near _him_.

He just wanted to look at him. He just wanted to _look_...

He slowly ascended the staircase, making his way up to The Room.

________________________________

Lois squinted up into the blinding spotlights, as she lay flat on her back. She could feel their warmth on her skin, but she still felt cold.

The corpse of the dead man – her silent companion – had been removed from The Room.

That left just the two of them. Alone.

She was alone in this room with _him._

The Joker.

The floorboards creaked. Off to her side she could feel them gently bow, as the weight of a man approached. Slowly.

She kept her eyes trained on the ceiling. She didn't want to see what was coming. Literally. She opened her eyelids wider, beckoning the brilliance of the unforgiving light into the wells of her pupils to obliterate her peripheral vision. Her eyes stung, and they watered, but she did not shut them. Shutting her eyes didn't make the Joker disappear. She tried that already, and it didn't work. Brown shapes started to materialize in scattered patterns in her field of vision, as her retinas spun a kaleidoscope of burning tiny geometries.

Lois shivered as an object moved in front of her line of vision, eclipsing the light and casting her face in a shadow. She blinked. The Joker stood directly at her side, the toes of his shoes nearly touching her body. She couldn't see his face for the bright light that haloed his head, as he bowed it to look down upon her. What she could see was the fringe of his hair curtaining his face, the shoulders hulking as he towered over her.

He stood, unmoving. He said nothing.

A black figure set against the white light. The sight was ominous.

Lois was reminded of a story she had been sent to cover out of Honduras, where a washerwoman had claimed that the Archangel Gabriel had visited her; not a vision, but an actual visitation. She had claimed to see a bright light, followed by a looming figure appearing over her. The figure was too dark to see, but the presence embodied a loving benevolence that enveloped and soothed her.

Lois didn't believe in religious visitations. She believed that if someone were desperate enough to need tangible proof of a personal spiritual conviction, the subconscious mind could produce a hallucination that the conscious mind would accept as reality. It was all in the mind.

A fabrication. A projection. Not real.

As she looked up at the imposing blackness that hovered over her, she thought of the washerwoman's alleged visitation. This, most assuredly, _was_ happening. This was real.

But there was no hint of benevolence.

There was nothing but cold enmity enshrouding this man. It radiated from him like body heat. If the archangel Gabriel had, in fact, visited the washerwoman, then perhaps it was in the realm of possibility for the archangel Lucifer to incarnate as well.

And perhaps it was Lucifer who stood over her now.

The Joker's beguiling ways had cozened and charmed men on wayward paths into joining him in his anarchic pursuits. He had a seductive magnetism that some actually found sympathetic, drawing the disenfranchised who were enamored with his brilliance and his silver-tongued promises.

Not unlike Lucifer.

This was one of the epiphanies that glanced on the smooth surface of Lois' consciousness as the silence drew on.

Lois found her mind slipping into associations that she wouldn't have drawn in the protective light of day. Knowing that innocent people would die tonight at her captor's bidding weighed on her conscience and stirred emotions that were eroding her grip on reason. The soul-crushing silence allowed her to turn many thoughts over in her mind.

In this forum of quiet, she began to unravel. It was what _he_ wanted. Indeed, he could levy as much destruction through passive stillness as in active aggression.

And so he remained... still.

Not a movement.

He didn't sway, he didn't say a word.

He just stood, black form silhouetted against white brilliance.

_What does he want?_

Lois' breath was shallow. She tried to breathe as quietly as she could, to listen for another sound in the room, even if it were _his_ breathing.

Nothing.

Stillness.

Then he moved.

He swung one of his legs over her menacingly, and placed it on the other side of her body, nudging her arm away from her side with his foot. The inside of his ankles pressed against the outside of her hips. The physical contact of their bodies shot icy currents through her.

With this shift in position, light poured over his shoulder and onto her face. She winced from the exposure.

Lois lifted a hand up to her face, shielding her eyes from the corona, to see his face.

_Why won't he speak?_

Finally, a noise. A low rumble of a laugh. The sound of a man who had wicked thoughts and committed wicked deeds.

_What does he want?_

"Queen of _Tartssss_." She visibly shuddered at the sound of his voice. "We're _alone_ now, finally. Just the _two_ of us." Pause. "Just you… and. _Me._ "

She didn't like the sound of his voice. The register was low. There were unsavory innuendos that hung in the air, unspoken. It chilled her that their bodies were touching. Lois' eyes looked in the direction of the closed door. She strained to hear a sound outside. God help her, she felt as though she actually wanted the men back outside the door standing watch.

He saw her sights rest on the door. "No, they're ah, they're not outside _anymore._ In fact, I've sent them on a couple of little errands. That should give us more…" He nudged her hip with the side of his foot. "… _privacy._ "

She saw him bring his hands up to his chest. His whole body was cast in shadows, so she could only see the silhouetted shape of him. There was a movement of his arms, and she heard the soft rustle of fabric brush over itself. His shoulders drew up and rotated.

Something swung out to his side, up by his head. She blinked.

It looked like a wing.

For the briefest of moments, she thought that it was the wing of Lucifer himself. _God help me, am I seeing what I think I'm seeing?_

It hung down long and wide. The outer edges of its silhouette rounded concavely inward and came to two protruding points. The bottom formed a formidable point before curving back toward his body. It had the shape of a gargoyle's wing. Lucifer's wing.

But it wasn't a wing, and he wasn't Lucifer.

She blinked again. Not a wing.

No, the Joker was holding his arm up high, clasping the button edge of the green vest that he had removed, stained with Lois' blood on the front. He had held it out to unfurl, dangling it above the ground for her to see, before finally letting it drop.

And no, he wasn't Lucifer.

He was a man. A very wicked man with very wicked thoughts.

And very wicked desires.

As he slowly loosened the tie from his neck, Lois began to understand what he wanted.

________________________________

. . . . . . .

Author's Notes for "The Wing of Lucifer"

. . . . . . .

_Here's an interesting bit of information to add texture to this chapter:_

**_Lucifer_ ** _(Satan) is sometimes referred to as the **'Morning Star** ', based on a translation of a Biblical passage._

_Astronomically speaking, **'Morning Star** ' is a term for the planet **Venus** , as it is only visible at twilight or when shining brightly on the dawn's horizon._

**_Venus_ ** _is the Roman goddess symbolizing **love** (sex)._

**_Lucifer/Satan - Morning Star - Venus - Love/Sex_ **

_I couldn't help but see the implication of a very dark sexuality associated with Lucifer. It seems to fit the Joker like a (purple) glove._

_-4ofCups, 2008.11.16_


	18. Recollections of Arkham

*** RECOLLECTIONS OF ARKHAM ***

**Chapter 18**

**. . . . . . .**

Barker started to tremble with the anticipation.

He would be quiet. He would not make a sound.

He had climbed the staircase to the second floor without making a noise, senses sharpened, listening for voices wafting down from the third floor.

He had never been up there, but he had been told: that was where The Room was.

Being very slight of frame had its advantages. A light body didn't make as much noise crossing floorboards as a heavy one. It had helped Barker to go unnoticed when he needed to. Like when he used to slip out of his house as a teenager before his stepfather could beat him for being so small and effeminate. Like when he used to slide out of the group therapy room at Arkham, while another patient who needed restraining distracted the doctors.

Like when he wanted to see Mr. Joker do… what it was that Mr. Joker _did_.

He rounded the landing of the second story, and started up the stairs to the third floor.

Before joining the Joker's crew, he had only seen the Joker four times at Arkham. Barker remembered each sighting vividly.

The first sighting had been through the small window of the door to his room. Security protocol at Arkham had been modified once the Joker arrived. Whenever he needed to be moved, all other patients were locked in their rooms for their own protection, as the Joker was escorted in a straightjacket down the halls, flanked by four hulking orderlies. Barker had pressed his face against the plexiglass to watch the Joker pass by. His grin was wide as he talked to himself (deities did that, Barker knew for a fact). The men who escorted him regarded him warily, hands hovering near the weapons on their belts, at the ready to take the clown down if necessary.

The second sighting at Arkham had been from the recreation room. Both the patients and the doctors had stilled as they watched the Joker being dragged through the hallway, away from the visitor's quarters. He was in his straightjacket again, laughing manically and boasting about how he had just mind-fucked Commissioner Gordon, who had requested to see him regarding his possible involvement in a series of explosions set off near the wharf.

The third sighting was again from the door to Barker's own room, as the Joker was escorted down the hallway, restrained in his straightjacket. All patients were locked in their rooms, necks craned at the plexiglass to get a glimpse of the most dangerous criminal in Gotham's history as he passed by their doors. Barker's door faced that of a schizophrenic named Steven, who happened to have a pathological fear of clowns - coulrophobia. Steven was watching the Joker just as intently as Barker was, rooted in terror, even though the Joker had no paint on his face. As the Joker passed between them, he lunged at Steven's door, barking at the window. "Like clowns much, Steven?! I'm gonna getcha!" This sent Steven leaping backward screaming and nearly convulsing. As the orderlies gruffly swung him away from Steven's door, the Joker had ended up with his face at Barker's window, looking down at him in self-satisfied amusement. The clown smirked at him, then winked his mirth, before being dragged down the hallway to be returned to solitary confinement.

Barker had seen him close-up. He had looked into the black eyes of the Bacchanalian incarnation that brought Gotham to its knees. Barker felt _chosen._

The fourth and last time Barker had seen the Joker at Arkham was the only time the clown wasn't physically constrained. Barker was attempting to slip away from the group therapy room at the start of a new session, when a shriek filled the hallway, different from the wails of the lost souls that were common to Arkham. This scream was infused with the fear of God.

Or, the fear of Mr. Joker. They were interchangeable, as far as Barker was concerned.

The Joker had overpowered a doctor who was trying to administer a sedative with a syringe. While sliding his wiry, strong arm around the doctor's throat, the Joker depressed the plunger to empty the chamber of the drug onto the floor. He quickly drew it back to fill the syringe with air, then stuck the needle to the hilt into the neck of the doctor. He had the doctor in a stranglehold, pulling him backward down the hallway, his other hand poised precariously over the plunger. The doctor was helpless to struggle against the Joker, and the orderlies couldn't get close enough to subdue him without putting the doctor's life in danger. The Joker had dragged the doctor to just outside the windows to the rec room.

To the point that would ensure the largest group of witnesses.

With a cackle and a twitch of his head, the Joker shot a syringeful of air into the doctor's neck. The man's body jerked in violent spasms, even after the Joker dropped him to the floor and ran. The Joker lunged at an orderly wielding a nightstick, seemingly impervious to the blows that were landed before the Joker crushed the man's windpipe. The Joker grabbed the weapon, and cracked it sickeningly across the side of another orderly's skull who wasn't quick enough on the draw with his taser. The Joker added that weapon to his arsenal as well.

Then, he turned to bolt down a corridor and was out of sight. Three bodies lay motionless in full view of the stunned spectators. Behind Barker, a couple of the patients started to cry. Somewhere, off to his side, one of them began to laugh.

Barker had remained silent, mouth open, eyes feasting on the swath of destruction the Joker had created in the span of mere seconds.

Within the hour, the Joker had escaped from the grounds of Arkham.

During the Joker's stay at Arkham, only a handful of other patients had seen him in such close proximity as Barker had during that moment at his door. Barker played the encounter over in his mind repeatedly every day since it happened, recalling the thrill he felt standing vis-à-vis with _him_.

Mr. Joker wasn't allowed to wear his makeup in Arkham.

Without the makeup, he was beautiful.

But with it, he was magnificent.

And Barker knew Mr. Joker was radiating his magnificence right now.

Breathing heavily behind the rubber clown mask, he neared the third floor. His line of vision just cleared the top stair, revealing a long hallway straight ahead. At the end of it, a bag was propped up against a wall, outside of a door.

The only door to an inside room of the house. The door to The Room.

There was a light coming out from under the door. Barker was sure it had to be Mr. Joker's brilliance. He needed to feel its warmth.

He advanced with stealth, wondering what glorious happenings were unfolding on the other side of the door.

________________________________

_Lois Lane, Queen of Tarts… would you like to play?_

After the Joker removed his vest and dropped it to the floor, he remained silent. His movements were slow, but held purpose. This gave _her_ the time to draw her conclusions about what nasty bit of fun he might want with her. It gave _him_ a moment with his own thoughts.

_Play… I like to play..._

He hadn't been in much of a mood to play since escaping Arkham months earlier. There was important work to be done, as a result of his incarceration. In his six months at Arkham, he had been given the hospital's _finest treatment._ The Joker had rarely been near a window or natural light for the duration of his stint. He knew the time of day by the treatment he had received.

_What kinds of games could we play?_

If his mind were being poked at or prodded by the doctors of Arkham, then it was daytime. If his body were being used as a punching bag by the orderlies, the sun had gone to bed.

_So many games… so many choices…_

Monthly physicals conducted by the infirmary were required, so the doctors knew of the abuse... but looked the other way. As long as the trauma didn't show, they pretended it hadn't happened, despite what marks and bruises his body showed beneath his hospital-issued garb. The guards wouldn't hit him in the face – none had wanted to get near the scars – nor would they go so far as to break bones or leave bruises on obvious parts of his body. Members from Patients Rights Advocates of Gotham, along with the ACLU, would occasionally drop by for unannounced audits. Any obvious signs of abuse – even to the Joker – could result in a withdrawal of donors' funds desperately needed for the hospital's research.

A world of damage could be inflicted on him – and _was_ – without it catching the eye of the casual observer. Of course, this was nothing new to him. He had spent the better part of his life learning to deal with that type of treatment…

The Joker didn't know of one single doctor who had tried to intervene on his behalf, and he was a quick study of all of them. He could read each doctor better than any of them had managed to draw a read on him.

_We could play… a spirited game of Chutes and Ladders…_

But the doctors' unwillingness to intercede with the nightly physical abuse didn't bother him nearly as much as what they stole from him.

While they let his body endure ongoing trauma from the orderlies' attention, the doctors had insisted on letting the fresh scars on his face heal.

The ones given to him by the Batman.

_Maybe Monopoly? I get to be the wheelbarrow! You can be the little doggie._

The Joker had tried to claw at the scars when first admitted, but the doctors had quickly restrained him to keep him from aggravating the injuries further. He _wanted_ the fresh cuts to be aggravated. He _wanted_ them to become as ragged and hideous as the ones on the sides of his mouth. They were a badge of honor. They were a present…

… from _him._

But the doctors wouldn't let him touch his own face. Restrained in a straightjacket, he had snapped like a rabid dog at the hands of any doctor who came at his face with bandages and ointment, trying to sink his teeth in to tear at their flesh. He had to be put under with general anesthesia to facilitate a doctor stitching him up.

Still, he was determined to thwart the healing. A few days later while on his way to a psychiatrist's office, arms restrained in his jacket, he had managed to rub the side of his newly stitched face on the hard angle of a door as it swung open to the doctors' corridor. He didn't have enough time to create an abrasion deep enough to reopen the wound before the orderlies yanked him back.

That was as far as he had gotten in trying to keep his scars from the Batman. The doctors doubled the number of orderlies who escorted him around the hospital, and he was restrained in his bed to prevent him from rubbing his face on the floor or walls. His fingernails were kept trimmed almost to the quick to prevent him from clawing at his healing face, during the few minutes each day when he wasn't restrained.

To his dismay, the scars healed, and they healed well. So well that there was barely a trace that he had ever received the injures.

His physical connection to the Batman had all but vanished.

He endured his stay at Arkham, driven by sheer will. He would see the Batman again. He _must_ see him again, to allow him the opportunity to present him with some _new_ scars.

The Joker's hands moved up to loosen the necktie.

_Maybe we could play a few rounds of Truth or Dare?_

The Batman. _He_ was what kept the Joker's focus sharp while in Arkham. The thoughts of all the fun they would share when he escaped. The thoughts of all the games they could _play_ together.

_A fun game of cat and mouse, perhaps?_

Since his escape, the Joker had spent the last months tracking down the orderlies who had delivered his beatings, and he repaid them in kind in their very own homes.

He had trailed the doctors who allowed the beatings and who insisted that his scars heal. He gave _them_ some scars to think about.

And at every scene, he had left his calling card.

But there had been no Batman. The Joker had been waiting… biding his time for the bat to make his appearance, but he just wouldn't come.

Aside from one summer evening months earlier, when the Batman had crashed their heist before fleeing when the police showed up... nothing.

No one to rival him at his level. No one to play with. And he wanted to play. All that he had endured... all that he had planned... was for the Batman.

The lack of appreciation the bat was showing him was really starting to piss him off.

Was he no longer worthy of the Batman's attentions? He had bristled at the thought. Did people not _fear_ him the way they used to, despite the string of murders he left around Gotham of those at Arkham who had 'treated' him? It was enough to make a clown feel slighted. Insulted.

And that was _before_ he saw the prior night's broadcast of _Metropolis Live._

Yes, it was time to set the record straight. Time to correct the misconceptions about him, time to draw out people's worst fears… time to draw out the bat.

Time to dangle the delectable Lois Lane out there as bait. _Bait the bat. Bait the bat._

 _Someone_ at GPD had to be feeding the Batman information, despite the public ostracision. He was too valuable of a resource for them to dismiss altogether. Maybe the Batman had already heard the taunting voice mail message he had recorded on Lois' phone earlier that evening. He hoped so. Oh, he hoped so…

… _that_ would make the bat come out to play. _You wouldn't want Mizzzz Lane to meet a similar fate to Mizzzz Dawes, would you, Batman? I've got your beautiful damsel in distress right here._

 _Now come and get her before I have too_ much _fun._

The Joker stood over Lois and ravished her with his eyes.

_Ah, Mizzzz Lane…_

He thought of what her tears tasted like.

_would you…_

He watched her chest heave in spasms of breath. Her pupils were dilated despite the harsh light that flooded her face.

… _like to…_

The muscles in her neck were tense. A downed prey bracing for the jaws of the wolf.

… _plaaaaaaaaaay…_

Her fists were clenched, knuckles blanched to the color of the greasepaint on his face.

… _with meeeeeeee?_

Thoughts came to him as he took in the sight below him. Ideas. He let his mind run with the pictures that played on the screen of his mind. They took him into dark corners of his consciousness, and he liked it.

He liked it _a lot_.

The things he could do to her… right here, right now… they would bring him tremendous…

...satisfaction.

Horrible things that she… _she_ probably wouldn't like as much as _he_ would. If she could see the visions that he had, if she could plumb the depths of his darkest thoughts…

...she would be terrified.

She would scream, and beg for him to show her mercy. That, in turn, would only heighten his own pleasure.

And the Batman could be looking for her right now. If the Batman found _her,_ then the Batman would find _him._

And they could _all_ play together. _Mmm, mmm, mmmmmmm… wouldn't_ that _be fun?_

As the necktie's smooth surface slipped across his open palm, it elongated into a noose shape. That gave him an idea.

_Let's play Hangman, shall we? Yes, that will be our next game._

The pleading look on Lois' face was intoxicating. Her fear was palpable.

And being the animal he was, he had to taste it. Taste it _now._

He dropped to his knees, slapping the palms of his hands down flat on the floor on either side of her head. He lowered his mouth to her chin and licked it broadly, bringing his tongue up along the side of her face, stopping at her temple. Lois gave a choked gasp of disgust, and wiped at her wet face with the back of her hand.

He brought his forehead down to meet hers, rubbing against her like a cat leaning in to the affectionate hand of its owner. The guttural laughs started again. Low, soft, assaulting her cheek in hot bursts of vaporous venom. His breath was sour and rotten and sickly sweet all at once, even more potent than when his mouth was last on hers.

"Heh heh… ah, you know what they, ah say, about tasting a _meat_ you've never tried before?"

Lois lay frozen. She heard his words but couldn't fathom how they connected to form a rational thought. She couldn't form many of her own, for that matter, with a psychopath marking her like a dog with his own saliva and musk. And, of course, the face paint.

He lifted his face up so her eyes would meet his. "They say it tastes like _chicken._ " The ends of his hair brushed her face as he shook his head with conviction from side to side, like a young boy refusing to eat a dish of vegetables. "But I don't think that _you_ taste like chicken."

Lois could barely swallow. _Why can't I just black out so I can escape from this insanity?_

He moved one of his hands to her face to swipe his thumb roughly over her lower lip. "Mmmm… no, you don't-ah. Do you want to know what _I_ think you taste like?"

_No. No. I don't want to know. I want to disappear._

" _I_ think that _you_ taste like a very ambitious womannnn" (smack) "who did a very _foolish_ thing- _ah_." He lifted his hand from her mouth and wagged his index finger back and forth in front of her face in a scolding gesture. His voice was taut with condescension. "You narrated a broadcast that was meant to—" he blinked slowly. "—cast me in an _unflattering_ light."

His head cocked slightly to the side. The corner of his mouth curled inward as he chewed it in thought. "That wasn't a very _nice_ thing to do, _Sweet Tart-ah."_

His expression went blank. Lois didn't think that it was possible for someone with such disfiguring scars to have an unreadable expression.

"I've killed people for a lot less than that."

He brought his face down, pressing his cheek against hers to whisper in her ear. She felt the scars trace on her face with each word that followed.

"A. Lot. Less."

_OH MY GOD._

_Is this when it's finally going to come? The payback for his humiliation?_

_Now that I have no strength to fight and there's no one but_ him _to hear if I scream?_

He lifted himself up to look her in the eyes, cradling the back of her head with his right hand, while reaching up for the patterned silk noose around his neck with his left.

"So… what do you _think_ …" His tongue swiped his upper lip.

"…that _I_ should _do_ …" (smack) "…to set an _example_ …"

His face filled her vision.

"…to ensure that _no_ one…"

She saw his scars.

"... ever…"

She saw the growing smile.

"… _ever…_ "

It grew. And it grew.

"… _fucks_. With _me_. _Again_?"

________________________________

. . . . . . .

Author's Notes for "Recollections of Arkham"

. . . . . . .

_I wanted this chapter to complement the prior chapter, to present what was going through the Joker's mind as he stood over Lois._

_I also chuckled at the idea of the Joker terrorizing someone with caulrophobia. I know it's wrong... but it just seemed funny._

_-4oC 2008.11.22_


	19. An Added Surprise

*** AN ADDED SURPRISE ***

**Chapter 19**

**. . . . . . .**

Jones furtively scanned the road as he got out of the service van, zipping up his jacket as a sea of cars washed past them. Despite the heavy traffic on the Winter Hill Overpass, no one took notice of their van parked suspiciously on the side at the bridge's highest elevation. It was one of the few metro bridges in Gotham to have an emergency shoulder, allowing the other motorists to pass without incident to their left. The faces of the people in the vehicles that drove by were too panic-stricken to bother looking, choosing to heed the Joker's warning to get out of town. The panic provided the distraction they needed for the task at hand.

Wallace slid the side door open, and pulled out Mooney's body, wrapped in the tarpaulin. "Hey man, help me get him over to the railing."

Jones scurried over to the bridge's south-facing edge, the cold in the night air urging him onward with as much intent as his wanting to get this over with.

He glanced at his watch. Twenty minutes to eleven. The night was far from over.

Gripping the edges of the tarp, they awkwardly hoisted Mooney's torso up and over the railing, centering his body over one of the southbound middle lanes of the Gotham Expressway below. The bulk of the van obscured them from the line of sight of the other drivers on the overpass. None of the drivers coming from the north on the Expressway could see them, either. Wallace and Jones could only be seen through the rear view mirrors of the cars heading south, had any of the drivers bothered to look after clearing the overpass which was several stories high.

Of course, none of the drivers heading south on the Gotham Expressway _had_ seen them. No one wanted to look back at Gotham, only forward to presumed safety outside of the city.

Some unlucky bastard driving southbound was going to clear the overpass and have a very unpleasant surprise. Depending on the flow of traffic, Wallace declared that Mooney was either going to end up a speed bump, someone's hood ornament or unwanted luggage on the roof or back of a car. He had come up with that metaphor in the van on the way over, all-too pleased with himself for the attempt at morbid humor.

Jones didn't appreciate the joke. Nothing about this was funny. Nothing.

Wallace looked at Jones and nodded. "All right, man, let's get this over with. On three, okay?" He looked down at the bumper-to-bumper traffic, which was moving at a pretty good clip. "One. Two—"

Jones shook his head, and removed his hands from Mooney's tarp in a show of surrender. "No. I can't do this, Wallace. I can't _do_ this."

Wallace stared at him in disbelief. "We don't have a _choice,_ Jones – don't you fuckin' puss out on me now! We're not done tonight – not by a long shot." He tried to read the older man's expression. He seemed to be mumbling something to himself. "Hey, Jones, I'm talking to you! We need to work together. You want to be the one to answer to Boss if we back out?"

Jones ran his fingers through his hair, clenching it in anguish. He nodded down toward the Expressway below. "This will be catastrophic. And for God's sake, it's _Mooney…_ " Mooney had been the only one in the crew that Jones could really stomach. Mooney had been old school, like Jones; he hadn't shown near the appetite for depravity that the younger henchmen had. Jones couldn't be a party to throwing his body over a railing like a sack of garbage. Mooney deserved better than that. Curtis, no. Mooney, yes.

Wallace's jaw set. He had already watched a bus blow up from close range tonight, courtesy of his own handiwork. He had no problem tossing a person – who was _already_ dead – over a railing. In fact, he was looking forward to it, to see how big the pile up below would actually get.

"Fine. If you can't man-up and do this, then I will."

Jones mouthed an inaudible prayer, asking for forgiveness from a god that he suspected no longer existed.

Before giving Mooney's body a final shove, Wallace looked over at Jones one more time with a shit-eating grin. "Your call, man – speed bump, hood ornament or luggage?"

Jones couldn't even look at him. Wallace shrugged. "I call luggage." He turned his face to the lanes of traffic below, and bellowed, _"Hey, Gotham! The Joker sends his regards!"_

He pushed the body forward with effort, keeping hold of the edge of the tarp on the railing.

Gravity took care of the rest.

As Mooney's body was hurled six stories to the ground, it spun out of its plastic cocoon, twirling in its descent. Wallace and Jones watched as it fell. In detached observation, it reminded Jones of a high-stakes water balloon prank.

Mooney's body hit the hood of a small compact car. The weight of his legs shattered the windshield. There was a squeal of brakes as the car careened to the left into the side of a large SUV. Mooney's body flew off the hood of the crushed car and out onto the pavement, where it was run over by a minivan. The driver reflexively hit the brakes and lost control. Mooney's skull was crushed from the impact and his left leg was ripped off from being dragged under the vehicle. A Gotham Electric Power utility van plowed into the back of the minivan, flipping it end over end.

The driver of the SUV panicked and yanked the wheel hard to the right. Too hard. The momentum of the car overcame the high center of gravity, and the vehicle was toppled, skidding forward down the lane on the driver's side.

A semi hit the underside of the SUV in a sickening crunch, and drove it into the back of a late model Pontiac Grand Am. Both cars crumpled like tinfoil.

And that was how it started.

The air was filled with a deafening cacophony of crunching metal, screeching tires and shattering glass. There were so many impacts they couldn't be distinguished from one another by sound alone. Both men stood, slack-jawed, watching the pile up below them.

Another sound rose up from the din – people screaming.

Awestruck, Wallace absently let go of the tarp from the railing.

He turned around to look over the bridge to the headlights of oncoming traffic below from the north. Already there were blurs of white lights turning in directions counter to the flow of traffic, and the pile-up stretched backward down the Expressway. A chain reaction before his eyes. It was even better than the bus explosion.

Jones didn't see what Wallace saw. Jones was watching the tarp.

_Jesus Mary mother of God, the tarp. Oh my God—_

The Joker had told them to dispose of Mooney's body off the overpass into southbound traffic. Those were his instructions, blunt and without elaboration.

It had been Jones' idea to use the tarp.

Jones' idea.

He had reasoned that it would make the body easier to carry, provide them with more discretion, and offer Mooney a modicum of dignity as he acted as the vessel for one of the Joker's unholy plans to unleash chaos.

 _My idea. Oh no. No, no…it was_ my _idea…_

"Oh, Jesus Christ, not the tarp…"

Wallace turned back to his cohort and followed his line of vision. Jones' eyes were on the tarp, its full expanse spread out as it fluttered downward, wafting in slow motion toward the cars below.

Down, and to the left.

_To the left._

Into the oncoming _northbound_ direction of traffic.

Jones felt his heart leap into his throat. _Oh my God, what have I done?_

Wallace saw what was about to happen, and grabbed a fistful of Jones' jacket at the shoulder in anticipation. Astounded and delighted with anticipation. "Oh! Oh! Man, you gotta be fuckin' kiddin' me!" He started to laugh in disbelief, slapping Jones hard on the back in a congratulatory gesture.

Even the Joker – the fucking Joker _himself –_ had only instructed for _one_ direction of traffic on the Gotham Expressway to be brought to a crippling and deadly standstill; thanks to Jones, the northbound traffic would make the news, too.

Northbound onlookers had already started to slow at the sight and sound of the pile-up on the other side of the concrete divider, but they were still moving fast. When the tarp cloaked the entire driver's side of a Porsche Carrera, the driver braked hard. The Land Rover that was on his tail hit the low, back end of the sports car like a ramp and became airborne, landing on an older model Accord one lane over, crushing the car and everyone inside.

And so the pile-up began in the northbound lanes of the Expressway.

Wallace slapped Jones hard on the shoulder to rouse him from his apparent shock. "You're a genius, man. Boss is gonna _love_ you for that! You couldn't have scripted that if you tried!"

 _I did that. I did that. It was my idea to use the tarp. Even more people are dying because of_ me _._

Jones considered throwing _himself_ over the railing.

Wallace tugged at his sleeve with urgency. "C'mon, man, we've got to get my cell phone back. Now!"

Jones didn't even remember getting back into the van. With trembling hands, he turned the ignition key, accelerated and weaved through the traffic on the Winter Hill Overpass, which was grinding to a halt as the horrified drivers looked down on the disaster below.

Wallace turned to him. "I guess I was wrong."

Jones could barely register his words. "What do you mean?"

"Mooney didn't end up as luggage. He ended up as both a hood ornament _and_ a speed bump."

Jones wasn't listening. He just wanted to get as far away from the scene of the crime as possible. _Don't look back. Just drive, you son of a bitch. You dumb, stupid son of a bitch._

Jones didn't heed his own advice.

Three blocks down the road, with one last glance in the rearview mirror, Jones witnessed a fireball engulf the Winter Hill Overpass, and the majority of the cars on it, as the semi caught in the southbound traffic below the bridge exploded.

Wallace smiled as he saw the orange plume reach upward into the black night sky. "It's a great night for fireworks in Gotham, isn't it?"

________________________________

"You know, it's ah, _rude_ not to answer someone" (smack) "when they ask you a direct question."

The Joker was straddling Lois on his knees, holding the back of her head. He chewed his bottom lip in anticipation of her answer.

" _Weeeellllllll?_ " He shifted impatiently. "If you were _meeeeeee_ , what would _you_ do, to set an ah, aha, _example?"_ He licked his lips and looked at her intently. "You see, _Lo,_ I don't _llllllllllllllike_ it," he growled the word like a dog. "when people _fuck_ with me. I guess that was one of the facts that didn't make it into the, the heh, _Metropolis Live_ broadcast. So what should we _show_ people to make them understand that I. Mean. Business?"

It was sinking in – Lois was likely never to see another day after this. She looked at his stained teeth bared in a grin. Only a twisted deviant would take such delight in making his victim spell out her own doom.

 _You're going to do to me whatever you want, regardless of what I say._ So she said nothing.

"No ideas? Nothing? Hmmm…" he rolled his eyes in thought. "Maybe I just need to rephrase my poin _t_ , and you'll have a con-truh- _byoo_ -shun to make." He snaked his tongue out of his mouth and touched the scar on his left cheek. "It's like this, Little Tart-ah—" He closed his eyes. "I don't like to be _fucked_ with."

Then he opened them. "At all."

He reached his left hand up to his mouth, licked the tips of his fingers and brought them down to her face. A trace of a smile played on his mouth as the corners drew back and the scars puckered. "Now, ah, there are different ways that a woman can _fuck_ with a man." He swiped his damp fingers over her mouth.

Lois clenched her eyes shut and tried to turn her head, but he held her head firmly in place. "Ah ah _ah_ … look at me, Loissss."

She kept her eyes shut, and pursed her lips tightly.

"Open your eyes, and look. At. Me." His grip tightened on the back of her neck, as he dug his fingernails into the delicate skin at the base of her skull. She opened her eyes.

"Goo _d_." He released her head to rest on the floor again, lowered himself toward her, then rolled onto his right side. He slid his legs backward to stretch out to his full length on the floor, and he propped himself up with his right elbow, head supported in his right hand just inches from her face. He rested his left hand at the base of her throat. There bodies touched from their shoulders down to their feet, his chest leaning into hers, while his left leg casually draped over her left leg.

It was a nonchalant lovers' position, to help underscore his point.

The Joker sucked in his cheeks and continued, smiling with an expression that Lois interpreted as lustful intent. "Maybe you _know_ this already, but in _some_ ways," (smack) "a man can really like. Getting. _Fucked._ By a woman."

His eyes focused on her lips. "It's all about _technique-ah!"_ He leaned down and licked her lips.

Lois recoiled. _Jesus, this can't be happening!_

"See, if you had just…" he gestured in the air with his left hand. "… _stolen_ into this _room_ one night… pushed me _down_ on my _back…"_ he returned his hand to the base of her neck. "…heh, jumped on my lap and just _taken me_ …" He leaned in to smell her skin as he tightened his grip on her throat ever so slightly. "…then I probably wouldn't have _minded_ getting _fucked_ by you _._ "

He brushed the tip of his nose against her cheek. "Does that little _scenario_ do anything for ya, toots?" He ran his tongue along the inside of his mouth, probing the scars from the inside. He was thinking of _other_ things he'd like to probe from the inside.

"Hmmmm? Does the idea of you getting _rough_ with me and _having your way_ with me heat you up in any _shpecial_ way, shweethear _t_?" He ended his question with the vaudeville lacquer of W.C. Fields.

He ran his hand up to the side of her head, and leaned in to whisper in her ear. "Would you like to _rape_ me, Lois?"

Silence. Warm, sticky breath on the side of her neck.

_What?_

_WHAT?_

_He did_ NOT _just say that. I know that I didn't hear him say what I think he said._

"I think I would like that _a lot._ The idea of _you…YYYUUUUUHHH!_ " The Joker threw his head back in a mock throe of ecstasy and shook his head from side to side violently, looking and sounding like a growling dog. "Rrrrrrrrahhhh! That would be something, wouldn't it?"

 _This is going to be the last person I see alive. A sexually deviant freak. A psychopathic clown who wants me to rape him. Wants_ me _to rape_ him _. Maybe the cut on my abdomen was deeper than I realized. Maybe I actually bled to death, and I'm in hell right now. None of this makes any sense. I don't understand why he's saying these things._

His chest heaved into hers as he exhaled violent breaths. "Maybe I'll ah, have to let you try your _hand_ with some of that kind of fun later." Wink. "To make my point-ah," he drew his top lip down and bit it with his lower front teeth. " _technique_ is what matters. That would be a great _technique_ for you to use, _Lois Lane,_ if you wanted to _fuck_ with me."

Lois wanted to disappear into the floor to escape his touch, but it seemed to be everywhere at once.

" _Buuuu-uuuut…"_ He sighed dramatically, and bent his head down to rest his forehead on her chin. "…instead you chose a _different_ technique to _fuck_ with me. You went below the belt with that broadcast." He raised his head and looked her in the eyes. "See, Queen of Tartsssss, men don't _like_ it when a woman _fucks_ with their ego." His eyes narrowed while his smile remained slick. "It's the equivalent of hitting a guy in the _balls,_ publicly."

_Oh, shit._

"So you eh…heh, got me _last_ night in the balls, uh, _metaphorically,_ with that _news show_ you hosted…" he tipped his chin down to look at his own crotch, then looked up at her under raised eyebrows. "and then you got me in the balls _again, e_ arlier tonight _._ _Literally._ When you tried to make your little escape. You're two for two."

He slid his left hand down the length of his body to rub his crotch. He scrunched up his face in mock pain. "That sort of _hurt,_ Lois. A woman's knee striking a man where it counts" (smack) "can sting just a bi _t_. You don't have _balls_ , so you don't understand what I'm talking about. If you did, you'd feel it—" he twisted his hand around and cupped her between the legs. "—right _here."_

She didn't like where his hand was. A new wave of panic swept through her, and her eyes grew wide. "Don't!" He wasn't hurting her yet, but she could see where this was going. And it _would_ involve pain.

"Don't _what?_ Don't rest my hand on your cherry red tart?"

Tears started to well in her eyes. She couldn't even answer a question that was phrased so crudely. She hated this monster. Hated him with every fiber in her being.

"Fine, _Mizzzz Lane,_ I won't _rest_ my hand there." He leaned into her face and lowered his voice a register. "Maybe I'll do _something else_ with it."

He slowly began kneading her with the pads of his fingertips.

Even through the cloth of her pants, the touch was jolting. She drew her breath in sharply, horrified by his advances. She tried to cross her legs to hide herself from him but he held both her legs flat in place with his left leg atop them. "Uh uh _uh…_ no you don't _, Loissss."_

Her left arm was pinned at her side by his proximity to her, so she tried to slap him away with her right hand. It didn't stop him. She grabbed him by the wrist and tried to pull his hand away, but to no avail. As she yanked hard, her fingers broke their hold around his wrist and her hand flew off to the right. His hand stayed right where it was.

The Joker was enjoying himself. Tremendously.

Not just the sensation of touching her body and _feeling_ her next to him, but seeing her struggle with it psychologically. _That's right, honey, you're being_ sexually molested _by a clown. Gonna sleep well tonight?_

He smiled at that thought – a smile that was broad and positively wicked.

She tried again to tug him away from her, but could only hold onto his wrist as a passive protest. She had no strength. Worse yet, the slow throbbing she was starting to feel was making her even weaker.

 _This isn't happening. This can't be happening. Not to me, not here, not like this._ She caught sight of the lascivious look he was giving her as he suggestively licked his own lips, and she shut her eyes.

"Aw, what's the matter, Sweet Tart-ah?" He leaned toward her face and traced her jawline with the tip of his tongue. He knew the salacious advances were scarring her with shame. His breathing was starting to get heavy, aroused by her evident humiliation. "You know," he swallowed hard. "I'm giving your _special place_ a lot better treatment" (smack) (smack) "than you've shown _mine_ in the last 24 hours." The pressure of his fingers became more insistent. Guttural laughter. His own arousal was pulsing against her leg. "So tell me, is this a _good touch—"_ he licked the edge of his top lip. _"—_ or a _baaaad touch?"_

_This isn't what I want. No matter what my body feels, this isn't what I want. I was right the first time. He really is the devil incarnate._

He slid his tongue across her lips and plunged it deep into her mouth, devouring her. When he pulled back, she gasped for breath and shrieked. She shut her eyes tightly and turned her face sharply to the right, away from him.

Away from him and toward the closed door of The Room.

He looked down at her, breathing hard against the back of her left ear.

 _Do it, Sweet Tart. Do it. C'mon, I_ want _you to do it._

_C'mon, c'mon, c'mon…_

_Open. Your. Eyes._

Lois opened her eyes.

And the Joker _watched_ her open her eyes.

He knew what she was about to see.

He had been waiting for it.

Waiting for her to realize what he had known since sliding down beside her and beginning his lewd advances.

_They had company._

Lois' right cheek was flush to the floor when she opened her eyes. She could see under the door, which cleared the doorframe by a good inch and a half. Everything under the door was black from the darkened hallway…

… except for the ghostly white rubber clown mask that was _also_ pressed to the floor, facing her.

She felt her heart stop.

_Oh my God. OH MY GOD!_

When the mask nodded at her, she threw her head back into the Joker's shoulder and screamed with everything she had.

He quickly pressed his face flush against her left cheek. His right hand wrapped around her forehead, holding her head firmly where it was, ensuring that she couldn't turn away from the door. Making sure she saw it.

Her screaming did not ebb.

The Joker rolled his eyes back in his head, as he felt himself shudder with ecstasy, his hips bucking against her in frenzied jolts, as the grip of his left hand tightened between her legs. Holding her head in place with his right hand, he turned his face into her neck as he moaned his release. The sound of his pleasure was nearly drowned out by her shrieking.

He buried his face in her hair as he fought to slow down his breathing. Her screams became hoarse sobs, as her whole body shook with fear.

Panting and shaking himself, the Joker slid his face forward and rested his right cheek on Lois' left cheek. They were both facing the door.

"Lois…" The Joker licked his lips, and slowly, _slowly_ caught his breath.

"…I'd like you to meet _Barkerrrrrrrrr_."

________________________________

 

. . . . . . .

Author's Notes for "An Added Surprise"

. . . . . . .

_Um... yep. More kink and weird stuff to come after I get some much needed sleep.  Be sure to recommend this story to any friends who enjoy voyeuristic kinky non-consensual clown molestations._

_-4oC 2008.11.23_  


	20. Breaking The Doll

*** BREAKING THE DOLL ***

**Chapter 20**

**. . . . . . .**

She couldn't look away from it.

And it clearly didn't want to look away from _them._

As the Joker caught his breath, and as Lois processed that this seeming apparition underneath the door had a name, both parties just… looked at each other.

Lois couldn't turn her head, because the Joker was pinning her cheek to the floor with the weight of his own head on top of hers. She couldn't thrash backwards, because there was nothing but _him_ behind her, and he still held her by the forehead with his right hand to prevent her from tucking her head downward to avert her glance.

And she sure as hell couldn't close her eyes.

That ghost-like face looking at her – fucking _watching_ her from under the door, seemingly unattached to anything – was about the last thing she had anticipated. It had taken a few seconds for it to sink in, for her to process what she was looking at… and what was looking at her.

She didn't know it was possible to feel so exposed and violated.

Lois kept her eyes open, to make sure there wasn't another one of _those_ things about to materialize out of a dark corner somewhere.

The rivulets of paranoia seeping through her mind were beginning to flow together, creating an unstoppable torrent of fear. _Oh my God, who else is watching me?_ What _else was watching me? Watching me as I'm being… manhandled and fondled_ _by a deranged man who wears clown make up and kills people…_

Ironically, she felt as though she were watching _herself_ from a detached perspective. She couldn't fathom that all of these violent, terrifying and bizarre situations were happening to her.

The Joker lifted his head to turn down to look down at Lois' face. "So tell me, _doll_ " (smack) "was it as good for you as it was for me?"

He licked his lips, brought his mouth down to her cheek and blew a wet, deafening raspberry. Then he tossed his head back and cackled maniacally, aftershocks of his laughter rattling her against the floor.

Her vocal chords were raw from the shrieking, and all she could manage was a raspy wheezing sound. Her breath came in short, frantic bursts of hyperventilation.

His burst of laughter subsided, and he cleared his throat loudly and theatrically. "Barker, I'd ah, like to _invite_ you inside."

The white mask elevated off the floor. Lois watched the doorknob turn, and Barker pushed the door open slowly, with trepidation. With awe. Once the door was ajar about a foot, he stuck his head in from around the other side. Lois was beginning to wonder if he _were_ just a head, suspended on some unseen wire from the ceiling.

"All the way in, Barker."

The mask nodded, and Barker stepped inside, his body language supplicating approval from the deity. Lois could see it was a small man, perhaps even a child, he was so slim and seemingly underdeveloped. He wore brown corduroy pants that were too big for him, and his shirt was a very cheap-looking, pale yellow short-sleeved hand-me-down with buttons all the way down the front, fastened tightly at the collar. He had missed one of the buttons near the bottom when dressing, and the shirt puckered unevenly where he had tucked it into his pants. The skin on his hands was very pale, as if he hadn't seen the sun in a long time.

"Close the door."

Barker pushed the door closed, not turning his head from them. Not wanting to waste any opportunity to look at Mr. Joker. His head leaned slightly to the side as he looked at them. Looked at _Mr. Joker_.

The Joker bent his head down to put his lips right at Lois' ear, but kept his eyes trained on his stooge the whole time. "Barker is my favorite little _marionette_ of the bunch, aren't you Barker?"

Barker's clasped his hands in front of his stomach. He nodded three times.

The Joker rested his chin on Lois' shoulder, and absently chewed on the corner of his mouth. "Tell me, Barker… did you _enjoy_ what you saw?"

Pause. The mask nodded slowly.

"Good, because I enjoyed knowing that you were _watching_." A smile of satisfaction twisted up the corners of his mouth. "Barker," the clown finally released Lois' forehead with his right hand, and began stroking her head like a pet. "This is _Lois_."

The mask tipped downward, and Lois realized that this was the first time that Barker appeared to actually look at _her._

The Joker's words dripped with salacious intention. "I think that Lois is…" he ran his left index finger down the side of her body, watching it as it trailed down her waist and rested on her hip. "… quite something to _lllllllllook_ at. Wouldn't you agree, Barker?"

Barker nodded vigorously.

_Anything that Mr. Joker says must be true. Never disagree with Mr. Joker. Mr. Joker knows everything._

"I think that I'm a very for-choo-nut man, to have such ah, heh," he closed his eyes. "A _rrrrrrav_ ishing beauty with me tonight." His eyes opened again. "What do you think, Barker?"

Barker nodded three times. _Mussn't speak. Don't talk. Mr. Joker said the code word, which means I hold my tongue._

Lois was still shaking from head to toe with fear. Something about this little man's eerie silence unnerved her greatly. There was something _wrong_ with this guy.

The Joker poked Lois in the shoulder. "Tell me, Tartlette, are you familiar with the story of the Elephant Man?"

She looked straight ahead at Barker and said nothing.

The Joker continued, undeterred. "You know, that story about the guy who was so hideously deformed that he had to wear a mask? The guy who was paraded as a sideshow _freak_? Well, we have our _own_ version of the Elephant Man, right here with Barker. Don't we, little pal?"

Barker nodded. He beamed behind the mask at the token of praise in the pet name.

"We make sure that he keeps his mask on at all times for a _reason._ " The Joker winked at Barker. "I found him in Arkham. They were performing _experiments_ on him. Doctors can be so _cruel_ , can't they, Barker?"

Nod-nod-nod.

"Mmm-hmm. Now that he's out of Arkham, we keep him down in the basement." The Joker leaned down toward Lois, and whispered in a voice that was meant for Barker to hear. "Don't let his calm demeanor fool you, Lo. He's a maniac – _sex_ maniac. We have to feed him whores every other day to try to keep him satisfied, or else he just starts humping my men. We have to keep him chained for everyone else's safety."

The Joker took her by the chin and turned her face up to his. He narrowed his eyes and nodded, showing her his Very Serious Face. "We only unlocked him tonight because we knew that it would be a _special_ night." Wink.

Then he rolled his eyes and shook his head. "But let me tell you – those poor women! When he finishes with them…" The Joker let out a whistle of appreciation. "Let's just say they're out of—" he wrinkled his face at her in mock sympathy for their pain. "— _commission_ for a bit. The man is all cock. He's huge, really." (smack) "Women are mislead by his small size until he whips out Monstro the Wonder Prick from his Buster Browns. You should see it—"

The Joker drew in his breath and pointed up to the ceiling, eyes wide, feigning an epiphany. "Well, I just had an idea!"

His smile broadened and had very cruel intentions behind it. "Ya know, Barkerrrr," He narrowed his eyes as he looked at the lackey. "I bet that you actually wish that _you_ could do the things that _I_ got to do to the pretty lady." He raised his eyebrows and swatted Lois on her backside. "Don't. You?"

Slowly, with exaggerated range of movement, Barker nodded his head three times in an answer.

Lois clenched her fists and felt her head swim.

The Joker patted Lois' arm, and leaned down toward her. "Well then, I guess I should just let the two of you become… _acquainted_ and it will be _my_ turn to watch."

He motioned for Barker to draw in closer. Barker got down on his hands and knees, crawling over to them like an obedient dog.

"Whaddaya say, Queen of Tarts-ah? Are ya game?" He licked his lips.

Barker stretched out in front of Lois and pressed himself to her, to mirror what Mr. Joker was doing, sandwiching her between himself and the Joker on the floor. He was close enough to touch Mr. Joker, but knew that he shouldn't without permission first. But he wanted to.

"Like _this,_ Barker," the Joker stroked Lois' hair. Barker tipped his head to look from the Joker down to Lois. He started to mimic the Joker's movements.

"Good boy." The Joker moved his left hand down to Lois' waist, and gave it a tight squeeze. Then he whispered in her ear:

"Maybe I'll even have Barker take _off_ the mask, so you can see exactly what you're getting, both above and below his belt _-ah."_

Finally, and mercifully, the darkness found her.

Lois blacked out.

________________________________

Across the city, an investment banker pressed the key fob to unlock the door of his Jaguar XK. He set the Italian leather briefcase behind the driver's seat, climbed in behind the wheel and locked the door behind him. It was just before 11:00 pm, and he was one of the last to leave Gotham Trust National Bank. It had been a great day. He'd expanded his own personal portfolio with some stocks bought on margin, he'd received a personal invitation from a member of the bank's executive committee to accompany the executive board members on their next annual meeting in St. Christopher and Nevis, and his old flame was in town.

As he sat in the parking deck, he pulled out his Blackberry to bring up GCN's website. Stories of people fleeing the city and a bus explosion at a retirement home dominated the headlines.

He smirked in self-satisfaction. All the small-minded people of Gotham, so easily roused and running like lemmings in droves out of the city, were panicking because of a few hollow threats. He was smarter than that. He knew that the bus explosion was likely just a cheap parlor trick, a scare tactic from some has-been criminal. He wasn't about to flee anywhere. The only place he was heading was back to his high-rise, where his old college roommate's wife would be waiting for him in his bed, with two glasses of brandy on the night stand.

He started the car, and headed for the exit of the parking deck. When he swiped his security badge to raise the arm of the security gate at the main post, there was an odd beeping noise right before the arm raised itself to the 12:00 position.

The security post exploded and completely demolished the driver's side of the car.

________________________________

A few minutes later in Gotham's Chinatown, another bomb went off in a laundromat, engulfing the ramshackle building in flames, trapping six families that lived in apartment quarters above the facility.

Another bomb went off that was secured to the water meter of a townhouse, in a new community that was built for young families just getting their foothold financially. It happened in a neighborhood with a playground, walking trails, and signs proclaiming it was a 'neighborhood crime watch' community, where crime wasn't tolerated.

The Bright Mornings day care center for autistic children was hit as well.

In random areas around Gotham, fireworks were exploding in brilliant shades of horror, cascading in sparkles of human suffering.

________________________________

Commissioner Gordon was poised to make a statement before the press. The Mayor was holding court out at the podium, trying to get a word in edgewise as he was assaulted by questions from the media, and blinded by the flashes of the photographers' cameras. Gordon's mouth felt dry. He knew he had few words of comfort for anyone in Gotham. The explosion at the Oak Grove Retirement Home was one of the most despicable acts of violence he had ever seen as an officer of the law. Jim's mind kept circling back to the second video sent in by the Joker, which promised that he would make his suffering Gotham's, and that there would be other surprises and distractions.

Gordon cringed. God only knew what the Joker was doing to that reporter in the video off camera. What had been caught on camera was deplorable enough. Judging from what had been caught on film, Gordon was sure that the Joker's off-camera intentions for Ms. Lane were the likes of which he would never come up with in a hundred years if left to his own devices. The Joker wasn't wired like anyone else; completely devoid of conscience with an appetite for destruction that his stay in Arkham had done little to curb.

The Joker had managed to bring down both Harvey Dent and the Batman before entering Arkham. What was he capable of now?

Jim's brow furrowed. He had made a dreadful mistake six months ago. When the Joker had escaped from Arkham, the Batman had contacted Gordon. He had offered his help to the Gotham police, suggesting a trial suspension of his own banishment only until the Joker was caught. Gordon had declined the offer, concerned for the Batman that one of his own officers might not take kindly to collaborating with the masked fugitive, whose refusal to reveal his identity a year earlier had lead to the deaths of officers within the force. He suspected that his own officers would conspire to hunt the Batman down while the cooperative efforts were being executed.

Gordon shook his head at his own short-sightedness. _Did I really think that the Batman wouldn't have been able to handle himself against my officers?_ The Batman's skills were so formidable on every level that he was easily every bit as dangerous as the Joker.

Possibly more so.

Maybe, if Jim had accepted his offer, the Batman would have been able to help the GPD catch the Joker.

Maybe in doing so, the Batman could have started down the road to public redemption.

Furthermore, perhaps Gotham could have rediscovered in the Batman the hero they once knew, as no one else had risen to the vaunted position that Harvey Dent had held.

Maybe he wouldn't be standing in the doorway to the press room, waiting to be motioned in to make a statement about a psychopath venting his own personal rage on innocent citizens.

Gordon felt a hand tap him on the shoulder. He turned to see Detective Murdock. Jim tried to force a smile. "You've been the bearer of bad news tonight, Joe. For God's sake, give me some good news."

Murdock's lips were pursed, his face stone. Jim felt his own face fall as he looked at Joe. "Tell me."

Murdock looked down at his shoes. "Winter Hill Overpass. Both directions of traffic on the Expressway are in a gridlock. We're not sure how it started, but there was a massive pile-up in both directions. We estimate about fifty cars in the northbound pile up, and well over a hundred on the southbound side. The bridge exploded, taking most of the cars on top of it with it."

Jim's voice was barely audible. "How many casualties?"

Murdock looked up at him again and shrugged. "We're looking at about three hundred and counting."

"Commissioner Gordon." Jim looked over his shoulder to see the Mayor's features pulled taut, as he waved him over to the podium. Jim focused his attention on the podium's microphone as he walked, averting his eyes from the reporters who launched their questions at him before he'd even made it out of the doorway. As he turned to face the TV cameras, the flashes of photographers' cameras temporarily blinding him in a random sea of snapping white lights, he had a passing thought.

He wondered if the staggering flashes of white light before him in this room mirrored what Gotham looked like from a bird's eye view, should the Joker keep his promise to light up Gotham with his own version of fireworks.

 _Probably so._ Gordon knew that the Joker was a man of his word, as he was all too happy to prove when given the chance to do so.

________________________________

"Hmmm, seems that Lois has uh, checked _out_ for a little bit."

Lois lay motionless between Barker and the Joker. Barker shifted his glance upward to meet the Joker's, eyes wide with expectation. The Joker looked at him absently. Their faces were just inches apart. "Barker, you were a good little _puppet."_

Barker's eyes lit up, permission to speak granted again. "Oh, thank you, Mr. Joker! What would you like me to do now?"

" _Wellllll…"_ The Joker rolled over and reached behind him to grab the discarded vest on the floor. He pulled Lois' wristwatch out of the pocket. He smiled at the face of her watch. It had moons on it that cycled around the center to indicate what lunar phase it was. "Guess what _time_ it is, Barker?"

Barker gasped. "Almost show time?"

"That's right, numbnuts. Almost show time." He passed his thumb over the face of the watch, feeling its smooth surface. Keeping his chin down, he lifted his eyes to Barker. "Everything's set to record?"

Barker nodded vigorously.

"Good. I would have _preferred_ that our little Queen of all Tarts be _awake,_ but our special girl here needs some rest." (smack) "She's going to need her strength when she wakes up."

He was surprised that she hadn't passed out earlier than when she did. He could see how dehydrated she had become, and he was having a particularly good time _playing_ with her. He knew that he could become a bit... vigorous in his play. He liked the fact that she was strong. It meant that he could draw out his fun with her much longer. It amused him to see how he was breaking her mind, watching her lose the ability to rationalize as she struggled with his mind games and his physical and sexual assaults.

He could continue to make up fantastical stories, like the one he just had, starring Barker, and she'd be too terrified to question their merit, no matter how ludicrous the premise. Maybe he'd tell her that both Gilligan and the Skipper had docked the S.S. Minnow outside the door, and wanted her to give 'em a strip tease to see if she were better than Ginger or Mary Ann. Maybe he'd tell her that she could go free if she could just fish out the magic key from somewhere inside his pants. Maybe he could convince her that she were Princess Leia, and Barker was Jabba the Hut, and he could chain the two together. He snickered at the thought. Maybe he'd tell Lois to kick Barker's ass. He had no doubt she could, if she had her strength back. Maybe he'd provoke her into trying to kick _his_ ass. Maybe he'd have Barker run out and buy a green dildo, and tell her that it was a present to her from the Batman - the Bat-Dildo.

Maybe he'd dress her up in one of Pink Sarah's outfits. Hell, maybe he'd dress _himself_ up in one of Pink Sarah's outfits.

 _That_ had possibilities.

He'd have to do something in the area of changing clothes, since the inside of his boxers were damp and sticky from the excitement he couldn't contain at watching Lois scream when she saw Barker under the door. He was going to have to work on containing his excitement later this evening.

He was going to make good on his promise. He was going to make sure that she knew exactly what it felt like to be used like a whore.

Lois was the best toy he'd had to play with in a long, long time.

The best toy since the Batman.

The Joker always broke his toys. All of them. The fun was in the breaking. Sometimes in the playing, but mostly in the breaking. The more precious the toy, the more joy from its disintegration.

And there were so many ways he could break the Queen of Tarts.

So many ways.

Maybe he'd even let her try to break _him_ in a few ways.

He stood up, looked down at his crotch and scratched his head. He didn't know if he had a spare pair of boxers. Or if he _owned_ a spare pair of boxers. He kicked off his shoes and pulled down his pants, followed by the stained under shorts. Standing naked from the waist down, save for the mismatched argyle socks, he stretched his arms up high into the air, threw his head back and howled like a dog.

He then cupped his own balls, bounced them twice in his hands and yelled, "Boing boing!"

Barker's mouth dropped behind his mask.

The Joker balled up the "What's Happening!" boxers that were down around his ankles, used them like a towel to wipe himself off and tossed them over to the side of the room before pulling his pants up and fastening them. He smiled at Barker as he put his shoes back on.

It was almost as much fun to fuck with the little man as it was to fuck with Lois Lane.

________________________________

. . . . . . .

Author's Notes for "Breaking the Doll"

. . . . . . .

_The Joker is well aware of Barker's feelings for him. He knows that Barker has deified him, and he will use this to his advantage; both to continue his torment of Lois by soliciting Barker's assistance, but also just to screw with Barker himself. The clown likes to get his kicks wherever he can._

_-4oC 2008.11.27_


	21. Treading on Thin Ice

**  
* TREADING ON THIN ICE ***

**Chapter 21**

**. . . . . . .**

The voice was crisp as it came through her Bluetooth headset. "We're on in sixty. Cameras set to go live."

Cheryl Lazlow paced the production control room with her arms folded across her chest. She was looking through the glass down to the studio floor below. Tatjana Rose, an ex-adult film star who was making the transition into more 'serious' media forays, sat behind the desk on the set's main stage looking terrified.

She had been hired by _Metropolis Live_ for the draw her appearance and throaty speaking voice held for the heterosexual male viewing audience. She could read a teleprompter well, but fumbled consistently when it came to extemporaneous speech. She was Number Three in line as back up host anchor on weeknights.

Lois Lane was technically the Number One back up, though her status was more of a guest anchor than actual back up, per the stipulation in her ten-show contract.

The regular anchor of the show, Deirdre Combs, had refused to host tonight's broadcast, for fear that the Joker would target her as his next victim.

The Number Two back up anchor, Tanner Dresden, had voiced the same protest. Cheryl had fired him on the spot.

That left them with Tatjana.

Cheryl spoke into her microphone. "Someone tell Tatjana to get that deer-in-headlights look off her face _now._ "

The floor director, Sean, came out from behind the set's backdrop and replied, "What exactly do you want me to tell her?" He looked up at his boss in the booth overhead and held out his arms in manifestation of his question.

"Tell her to pretend she's on her back, shooting one of her adult movies. That should calm her right down."

Sean dropped his arms to his sides in exasperation. "Seriously?"

Cheryl huffed her annoyance. "I don't fucking care _what_ you tell her. We're live in less than a minute and I don't want this show's host anchor to look like a god damned frightened rabbit!" _Fucking amateurs. All of them, this is what I have to work with._

When Sean saw Cheryl turn away abruptly, he covered the microphone of his headset for moment and shot a hostile look toward the booth. "Bitch," he whispered under his breath.

He hopped up onto the platform and tapped Tatjana on the shoulder. When she practically jumped out of her seat, and turned to him with near-dilated pupils, Sean reconsidered. _Okay, maybe Cheryl has a point._

He put a hand on her shoulder to ground her. "Don't worry, sweetheart, you're going to be fine. Geoff and Marissa will be doing most of the talking tonight, all you have to do is read the teleprompter." Her eyebrows drew together in a question. He smiled at her genuinely as reassurance. "Just pretend it's being pre-recorded. You did great on the last two shows," he lied through his teeth, "and you'll do great tonight."

Two pats to her shoulder, and he was off to check on the sound feed.

Tatjana nodded after Sean was gone, and swallowed hard. She took a deep breath and closed her eyes. She wanted to impress the set directors and studio management so she could jump up to the position of Number One back up host on weeknights. Now that Tanner had been fired, she was automatically Number Two. In all fairness, Tatjana had to assume that Lois Lane would survive this kidnapping, meaning she still had competition for that Number One spot.

On the other hand, if the Joker killed Lois, that Number One position was automatically hers. She would be even closer to her dream job of the show's regular anchor, currently filled by Deirdre. She smiled at the thought, and felt her breathing slow. She opened her eyes.

Cheryl looked at the floor as she paced. When the file came in of the Joker's second video, she thought that would be her golden egg, assuring that when they bested the other network entertainment news shows with an exclusive video, her career was made. She was livid when she learned that the video feed was running on a loop on Gotham Cable News, and that Gotham's network affiliates were also playing the video and offering their analysis.

But her anger was short-lived. She still had the trump card: Lois Lane.

Shortly after the Gotham news channels received their video file around 9:30, the calls streamed into the _Metropolis Live_ station asking for details on Lois Lane. They were hungry for background information, to help them answer the questions that viewers were certain to ask about the woman who appeared in the video with the Joker.

Cheryl made sure that all incoming inquiries were stonewalled. No one at the station was allowed to breathe a word about anything they knew of Lois Lane.

Since the _Metropolis Live_ website had been temporarily dismantled, there was limited information about Lois on the Internet. For the purpose of the MPD's investigation, Lois' biography and archived stories had been removed from the online archives of _The Daily Planet_ as well.

The MPD's efforts to protect Lois had unwittingly handed Cheryl Lazlow every media executive's dream: the controlling stake of information for a key element of the most sensational story of the year.

Before 6:00 that evening, soon after they had first learned of Lois' kidnapping and more than three hours before the Joker's second video hit the cable stations in Gotham, Cheryl already had every backroom worker she could find trying to dig up people from Lois' past, to get any anecdotal or factual information they could find on her. The family angle wasn't turning up much: her father was in the military and inaccessible, and they didn't have much information on her mother either. Jimmy Olson was able to provide limited assistance by filling in the name of her alma mater, which led to a few names of high school and college classmates. The show would be filling in the rest with testimonials of a few _Metropolis Live_ coworkers and a few commentaries made by staff at _The Daily Planet._

 _Okay, Lois, tonight's show is resting on your shoulders. Don't let me down._ Cheryl knew that bringing Lois into the show's fold had been a coupe, but this was turning out to be beyond anything she could have imagined. Each show Lois had hosted posted ratings as high as when Deirdre anchored, which was unusual for the Number One back up position to accomplish. With tonight's broadcast, Cheryl knew they would hit a home run.

Adrenaline coursed through her.

"Camera One, ready."

"Camera Two, ready."

"Confirmation for video feed on Screen One, check."

Cheryl nodded as each voice checked in.

"Video Screen Two, check."

"Stage sound, check."

A man cleared his throat from the doorway. Cheryl snapped her head around, showing her displeasure at being interrupted so close to the broadcast airing. She shot daggers out of her eyes at the uniformed man standing before her.

Sergeant Rafalski's mouth was drawn tight, his hat in his hands. "Ms. Lazlow, I strongly urge you to reconsider airing tonight's show. You could end up making things a whole lot worse for Ms. Lane by provoking this guy further."

Jimmy Olson hung back from the Metropolis police officer, standing in the hallway, out of his boss' field of vision. He was chewing his nails and tapping his foot to channel his nervous energy. He had a bad feeling about tonight's show, and despite Cheryl's earlier assurances that airing the story of Lois' kidnapping by the Joker as the broadcast's focus could be helpful, he was now silently siding with Rafalski.

Down on the set, Sean checked in. "We're live in twenty-five."

Cheryl stuck her chin out in defiance as she countered the officer's point. "Or, we could end up with a tip that will save our reporter's life, Sergeant."

The Sergeant shook his head. "Ma'am, this Joker character spent six months in Arkham. Six. And he wasn't let out for good behavior, or by being declared 'sane'. He _escaped._ And during his escape, he managed to kill a doctor, two orderlies, a patient and a security guard before he was off the grounds."

Sean moved to the side of Camera One. "We're live in fifteen."

Rafalski continued, "This is an incredibly dangerous man who has the resources to override major broadcasting networks' programming. He's proven that he has the tools and the willingness to blow up buses carrying innocent people. It's likely he'll do more than that. I've had to bring extra men and women in here tonight from MPD to cover for possible bomb threats to _this_ station because of this broadcast. Did _that_ ever cross your mind?"

Both the sound mixer and character generator operator looked over at Rafalski when they heard mention of a bomb. Then they looked at each other. The same thought passed through their minds as the danger of tonight's show became more tangible: _Oh, shit._

Sean pointed at Tatjana, his arm moving in cadence with his counting: "Ten. Nine…"

Cheryl bellowed at the officer: "This is _my G_ od damned show, and I will run it the way I see fit!" She thrust a pointed finger at him. "Now get the hell out of this station!"

Jimmy peeked around the corner. "Ms. Lazlow—"

" _One_ more word out of you, James, and your days with _The Daily Planet_ are _over_!"

Jimmy sheepishly turned around and stepped aside.

The intro music for the show filled the studio. The broadcast monitors in the booth illuminated with graphics fading in showing the Metropolis skyline at night, and a montage of video clips of beautiful people wearing beautiful clothes getting out of beautiful cars, going to beautiful places, while the words "Metropolis Live" faded in from left to right in a cursive font, suggestive of a sexy diary entry. As the standard intro piece came to its conclusion, bold graphics declaring, "SPECIAL EDITION: THE JOKER'S REIGN OF TERROR" filled the screen.

Cheryl marched over to the doorway, and placed her hand on the production control room door. A smirk hitched up the right side of her face. "If you'll excuse me, officer, I have a show to run."

She triumphantly closed the door in his face.

________________________________

The bass had been turned up to its highest setting, and the pulsations of the percussion made everything vibrate: the walls, the floor, the people, even the liquor in his glass. The atmosphere inside Flesh for Fantasy throbbed with an angry undercurrent of sexuality.

Vinnie Maroni sank into a plush leather sofa in his VIP alcove cordoned off from the main floor. Trent Reznor's vocals filled the air as Nine Inch Nails' "Closer" pumped through the speakers, creating visual reverberations in Maroni's martini. Everything in the club was a distraction, from the alcohol, to the music, to the performers and patrons. This was the escape that he needed.

The couch was in full view of the rest of the club. Sometimes Vinnie liked it when people could see him watching them. He felt like Caesar atop his throne, enjoying the debauchery that played out before him in his very own version of the Roman Coliseum. Behind the sofa was a small, private room with darkened one-way glass. When Vinnie felt the need to enjoy himself a bit _more_ while watching the sights, he would slip into the room for discretion.

Whenever he was in the club, employees were there at his beck and call, standing near the opening to the alcove, waiting to be motioned in by invitation only. He looked over the collection tonight, and fixed on the one he wanted. He motioned to her, and she stepped up into the VIP area.

"The neck, doll." He smiled at the woman who had short, spiky black hair and dramatic Goth make up. He eyed her as she slunk toward him. She wore a black leather corset with red satin ribbons up one side, red satin panties, and a black leather garter belt holding onto black fishnet tights with red bows at the top. Her shoes were black Mary Janes with serious stiletto points. She was a relatively new hire. Vinnie wasn't too familiar with her, but was willing to give her the chance to make an impression on him.

She smiled at him vampishly and walked around behind the sofa. She ran her nails down the side of his neck and started to rub the base down by his shoulders. He closed his eyes and leaned into her touch. It was a pleasant change of pace from the afternoon's scene with the Joker at Rogue. As he leaned backward, he realized that he'd need to be as horizontal as possible to really allow the woman behind him to work the kinks out of his neck. That meant he needed an ottoman on which to rest his feet.

He opened his eyes and looked around. He snapped his fingers at a young man in his early twenties, who had been standing off to the side obediently, hands clasped submissively behind him. The young man hurried up to him. Vinnie pointed to the ground. "I want to put my feet up." The young man nodded, got down on all fours and let Vinnie place his feet on his back. Vinnie crossed his legs at the ankle, putting all the weight into a concentrated area at the base of his shoe's heel. He made sure that this pressure point was directly atop the joint of the man's chain harness, to ensure as much discomfort to the submissive as possible. The young man said nothing, and made no show on his face of the pain he surely was feeling.

Vinnie had downed two martinis while checking in with the head bartender at the lounge on the first floor, and as the alcohol of his third easily slid down the back of his throat, the soothing numbness started to take hold. He looked around. His private VIP area was set on a platform elevated several feet above the main floor, allowing for a better vantage point for the goings on all around the stage below.

This section of the club was a large open room, with numerous alcoves, like a beehive, where anyone could grab a seat to take in the sights. It reminded Vinnie of the floor of the stock exchange: Flesh for Fantasy manifested the principles of the free market more visually than any other example he could think of. Before him played out the most basic demonstration of the laws of supply and demand: the needs of the voyeurs and the exhibitionists intersected to allow for the perfect reciprocation of entertainment desires.

Off to the left, two women clad in black mourning dusters were undressing a female patron with their teeth while her husband watched. In an alcove across from him, an obese man stripped down to his striped boxer shorts had been laid down atop a sturdy table, while a well-developed, mustached man in a cobalt blue leather thong dripped hot candle wax on his chest. Every time the wax hit his chest, the patron yelled out, "Yes, Mommy!" Vinnie wrinkled his face at this and averted his glance, seeking out something else to watch.

Along the wall to the right, a man was being helped out of his three-piece suit. Vinnie recognized him as the CFO of a prominent textile company in Gotham. He'd been in the club several times. There were two dominatrices taking off his clothes, while a third stood watch. She held out her left hand and rhythmically swatted her open palm with a riding crop, waiting for the man to be disrobed so she could begin her work. Vinnie chuckled to himself. _This one oughtta be good to watch._

He took another sip of his drink as a thought came to his mind. The alcohol was dulling his senses and affecting his recollection a bit, but there was something that seemed different about the scenario playing out with the CFO. Then, it hit him – it was the head dominatrix. She was different than the customer's usual request. Most customers got into a comfort zone where they were willing only to allow certain entertainers to 'play' with them. It was unusual for patrons to rotate randomly through his employees. Since the nature of the interactions were so intimate, it required a certain level of trust that tended to come with familiarity.

Mistress Femke. That was who usually worked with this customer. Vinnie always liked to watch her work, and tried to make a point of stopping by when she was scheduled to be on. He didn't recall seeing her name on the board for a vacation request. He was slightly disappointed, wondering where she could be.

His attention was grabbed by a high-pitched woman's giggle. It was coming from the partition directly in front of his VIP area. He looked through the open area where the steps were, trying to see what scenario was playing out that seemed to have a female patron very giddy. Or maybe it was a female employee playing to the fantasy of a patron with school girl-like yelping.

Another high-pitched gasp. More giggling.

The sound of it was turning Vinnie on. He decided to position himself to see what was going on. His employees knew that when he was in his VIP area, they were to perform on the far side of the room to allow him an unobstructed view. However, not all of the customers interacted with the employees of Flesh for Fantasy. Some brought their own toys and outfits (once they'd been cleared by signing a waiver, of course), just looking for a more exhibitionist forum in which to play out their bedroom fantasies.

Whoever was immediately in front of the wall blocking his view was likely a small party of customers. Vinnie stood up with his drink in hand and looked back at the woman who had been rubbing his shoulders. He smiled at her and she replied with a lascivious swipe of her tongue across her top lip. He nodded in the direction of the partition, and held out the crook of his arm for her to take, so she could escort him to the ledge of the wall. She slid her arm into his and they moved to the partition.

Another squeak from the woman below. Vinnie's curiosity was getting the better of him. The woman's cries sounded vaguely of protestations, but there was definitely a note of excitement in her voice. Vinnie looked down over the top of the wall.

An attractive brunette woman in her early thirties stood facing his direction, wearing a pink silk camisole and a tweed skirt. Her shirt had fallen into a puddle around her feet on the floor. She was wearing stockings and demure high-heeled shoes. She wore a pearl necklace and matching earrings. Definitely a patron and not a new employee. She was biting her bottom lip and visibly shaking with excitement. Even in the dim blue light of the room, he could see that her cheeks were flushed.

"You _like_ that, don't you?"

The voice came from a man standing directly below Vinnie, his back to him. His wavy hair was a bit longer than most, covering the back collar of his outfit. He was wearing what appeared to be a long coat, almost a duster, in a dark blue. It was hard to tell in the light. It may have been purp—

—purple. _Are you fucking kidding me?_

Then he saw the man reach out to the woman's waist with both hands, wearing purple leather gloves. Tucked into one of the hands was a knife. Vinnie actually felt his breath catch in his throat. The man's left hand pulled the waistband of the woman's skirt out and away from her body, as the knife slipped inside, blade toward the cloth. The hand with the knife was drawn downward, slicing the woman's skirt from her body. She covered her mouth with both hands, a nervous titter escaping her lips. She shrugged her shoulders up in anticipation. Even behind her hands the edges of her smile showed.

When the skirt was on the floor, she remained in a camisole and slip.

"What do you say we get you out of that top, my dear?"

She screamed in frightened delight, bouncing on the balls of her feet. The man advanced on her, moving around toward her back. When the man turned around to grab the woman from behind, Vinnie absently dropped his martini onto the hard floor below, shattering the glass. Both the man and the woman broke their play and looked up at Vinnie in surprise.

Vinnie felt the veins at his temples start to throb.

The man below had painted his face up like the Joker.

It clearly _wasn't_ the Joker, but that didn't curry any favor with Vinnie. Missing were the telltale scars stretching up from the corners of the mouth, and the eyes, though painted in black, were far too human to be the Joker's. The man was shorter and a bit stockier, with a slightly fuller face.

Vinnie looked down at both customers in disgust. _So this is the kinky little fantasy they've got cooked up? He plays Joker and she plays 'unwilling' victim?_ Vinnie could appreciate a good game of role-playing as well as the next person, but he had seen what the Joker was capable of. Up close. Too close.

This wasn't happening. Not in his club. He didn't want any reference to that homicidal freak anywhere near him.

The very sight of the greasepaint on the man's face made his stomach roil, and he felt like he would choke up all three martinis right onto the floor at their feet.

He pointed toward the far end of the room and bellowed at them. " _Get the FUCK out of my club! Now!"_

The two customers stared at him, mouths agape. Then they looked at each other in confusion, wondering what they'd done wrong. The man tried to offer a conciliatory explanation. "It's okay, man, we've been here before. We've gotten permission from the manager. We're regulars."

"Not anymore, you're not." Vinnie stomped down the stairs toward them. "I'm the _owner_ of this club and _I'm_ telling you to get the _fuck out_. And don't _ever_ come back!" He pointed a threatening finger in both customers' faces. "You got me?"

The woman had dropped her head in shame and started to cry. The man kept trying to apologize. Two oversized bouncers came over quickly to the scene. Vinnie barked his instructions at them. "Get these two out of my club and make sure they understand that they are _never_ welcome here again!" The woman barely had time to pick up her clothes at her feet before both of them were dragged across the floor and downstairs toward the exit.

Vinnie took a few deep breaths to try to regulate his blood pressure. A waitress hurried over to him, motioning to the broken glass on the floor. "Mr. Maroni, we'll get this cleaned up for you. Can I get you another drink?"

He took one more deep breath and nodded. "Sure, honey, that'd be good." Vinnie turned to step back up into his alcove, when he heard a familiar voice shout at him. "Maroni! Hey, I talk to you! Maroni!"

He smiled to himself before turning around. _Ah, the lovely and uncompromising Mistress Femke, the Dutch dyke on patrol._ He had _thought_ she was on tonight. He turned to face her as she stormed toward him. "Femke, sweetheart, what's got your balls in a twist?"

She was an imposing woman. Easily 6'1" barefoot, and in her platform stilettos, she towered over everyone at a healthy 6'6". Her facial features were strong, but they came together well to give her an icy and fearsome beauty. She had the build of an Olympic swimmer, broad, muscled shoulders and arms, torso narrowing to a V above slim hips and impossibly long legs. She was wearing a latex suit that looked like it was painted on.

The first time Maroni had set eyes on her, he kept looking for an Adam's apple, certain that she had had a sex change, and that her name had once been Rolf or Franz or whatever the fuck they named boys in whatever the fuck country Dutch people came from.

"You!" She poked him hard in the shoulder. It genuinely hurt him. "You promeese us gude secureety! We work hard to please coostomers and you provide protection!"

He wrinkled his brow. "Femke, I don't know what you're—"

Her eyes narrowed and she barked in his face. " _Meestress_ Femke, you asshole!"

This was the only woman in Gotham who could get away with talking to Maroni like that. Truth was, he was a bit scared of her, like everyone else was, but she brought the customers in, so she was a keeper.

He nodded his head in concession. "Sorry, I meant _Mistress_ Femke. What seems to be the problem?"

She shook her head from side to side, her platinum blonde ponytail high atop the crown of her head thrashing back and forth. "My toys are gone! Sumebody came een here and tuke my toys! Who weell buy me new ones? I cannot play weeth coostomers weethout my toys!"

Vinnie was quickly reminded that a dominatrix only speaks in commands and shouts. "What do you mean, someone took your toys?" _Jesus, who'd be stupid enough to take something from_ you _?_ "Are you sure you didn't misplace them?"

She crossed her arms and looked down her nose at him. "What you theenk, I'm stoopid? You theenk I don't know where I poot my stooff?" She grabbed Vinnie roughly by the collar and pulled him to her, nearly lifting him right out of his shoes. He didn't know whether to be turned on or frightened. "I saw a man here earlier! I saw him! And I know he tuke my toys!"

Vinnie shrugged. "Fem— _Mistress_ Femke, what do you mean you saw—"

Then he remembered. It had to be the Joker's man who had come to fetch some things of Pink Sarah's. The prick must have taken some of Femke's tools of the trade on his way out. Vinnie tensed at the thought. _That fuckin' clown._ No matter how he tried to get away from him, everything kept circling back to the Joker. Thanks to that freak, he now had a pissed off dominatrix dyke to deal with. A perfect ending to his night.

"Listen, I think I have an idea who may have taken your things. I'll try to get it straightened out. Why don't you take the rest of the night off—"

"No!" She pushed him away from her with force, then she advanced on him. Vinnie actually took a few steps back to get away from her. "I go nowhere! You see news? Eet ees safer een here than out there! Theengs blow upe because of the poorple clown! He say that people die tonight!"

Vinnie hadn't been around a TV all night. He was too preoccupied with trying to clean up the mess left at Rogue. "What do you mean…" He turned and walked to his private lounge to turn on the television. Femke was hot on his heels. "You theenk you can walk away from me?"

 _Give it a rest, bitch._ He went into the private booth in his lounge and turned on the TV. As he channel surfed, nearly every news station had a headline banner across the bottom relaying news of the Joker. He felt like projectile vomiting. Femke pointed to the TV. "There! See? I told you!"

There was a knock on the door and Vinnie looked up to see the alarmed faces of two bouncers looking at him. "Mr. Maroni, can we talk to you a minute?"

Femke shouted at them. "No! I talk to heem first! He help me feex problem weeth—"

Vinnie decided to take his chances and he pushed his way past Femke to talk to his men. "What's wrong?"

"I'm not dune talking weeth you!" He did the best he could to brush her voice to the side, concentrating on his bouncers.

"Mr. Maroni, we just found Julian unconscious outside. It looks like someone took him out. The door was wide open."

Vinnie blinked. "What?" Julian was one of the best bouncers he'd ever employed. Physically enormous, with experience in both Taekwondo and Jiu-Jitsu, no one had ever gotten past him before. Ever. "How the fuck did _that_ happen?"

No answer. Instead, the eyes of both men grew wide as they looked over his shoulder, and they stiffened. Vinnie turned around. Femke was glaring at all three of them, hands on her hips.

But that wasn't who the men shrank from.

Behind Femke stood the Batman.

"Oh, shit." Maroni couldn't believe what he was seeing.

Femke spun around. She was a few inches taller than the Batman in her shoes. "Who the fuke are you?!"

Femke had been in Gotham less than a year, so she didn't know about the Batman. She didn't know that he was to be feared. She thought he was another dom in a bat-shaped cowl.

The world of BDSM has its heirarchy, and not even a high-scale club like Flesh for Fantasy was exempt. When several dominants work close together, one has to assert him- or herself as the alpha in the pack.

Femke mistakenly thought the Batman was another dom new to the club who was there to challenge her authority as the top dominant.

She pulled her right arm back and threw a powerful hook to the left side of the Batman's jaw. His head turned with the momentum of the strike, but he did not lose his balance. He paused, leaning off to the side, then turned his face back toward her.

"What? What are you luking at you asshole?" Then she clocked him again. The force was just as hard as the first blow, and it drove his face to the side.

But not as far.

He was more resolute in his stance.

Again, the Batman turned to face her. Much slower.

This time, he had _a look_ on his face.

Behind her, Femke heard one of the bouncers say, "Jesus, that is one dumb dyke."

And for the first time that she could recall in a very long time, Femke felt a wave of fear hit her.

Right before the Batman's fist hit her.

Square in the jaw, sending her sprawling across the floor, unconscious.

The other three men stared, slack-jawed, at the Amazonian woman who lay out cold on the floor. Then they looked back at the Batman, whose eyes were focused with a laser's precision on one face before him.

" _Maroni_."

________________________________

. . . . . . .

Author's Notes for "Treading on Thin Ice"

. . . . . . .

_Although I don't picture the Batman going around hitting women, I figured he'd make an exception in Femke's case._

_-4oC 2008.11.29_


	22. Agent of Chaos

*** AGENT OF CHAOS ***

**Chapter 22**

**. . . . . . .**

Curtis looked around at the televisions that were broadcasting the news at the Downtown Crossing stop of Gotham's subway system. He had a longer drive out to the subway than Wallace and Jones had to the Winter Hill Overpass, and he was concerned that news of their handiwork might be disseminated before he had finished with his task.

After watching about ten minutes' worth of footage, it became clear that all news stories were still covering the aftermath of the bus explosion. Curtis felt both relief in seeing that no station was reporting anything about the Winter Hill Overpass yet, as well as a giddy anticipation for his imminent participation in the night's plans. A few passersby stopped to watch the news feed, but not many. That meant that the subway would still be teeming with people who were trying to get out of Gotham, unaware that modes of transportation were being targeted by the Joker next.

Unaware that _he_ was sent there by the Joker to disrupt the flow of transportation by delivering a few special 'packages', to be discovered by hapless citizens.

This was going to be entertaining.

For all the commotion, few had noticed the two oversized navy blue duffle bags he was carrying, except as they swung into people when he turned his body. He walked with both bags into a men's bathroom.

Public bathrooms in transportation locales were fairly disgusting to start with, but he was going to add a decorating touch of his own that would make this one particularly gruesome. He stepped up to a urinal, looked around to make sure no one was looking, and unzipped a bag while pretending to be unzipping his pants.

He had thought of the visual pun that this first drop-off would present, and he thought it was hysterical. Another quick scan of the bathroom. Two men in the stalls, and one man washing his hands, getting ready to leave.

Curtis made his deposit, took out a digital camera to capture the moment, then hurried out of the bathroom.

A train had just pulled up, and he squeezed on, both bags knocking into other passengers. They shot him indignant looks, but when he met their eyes with unchecked hostility, they quickly averted their glances. Right before the doors closed, Curtis could hear a man shouting from the men's bathroom: "Holy shit! Oh my God!"

He smiled as the platform became a blur of concrete and faces as the train shot away from the station down the tunnel. He pulled out his camera to look at the photo on the digital display. He'd placed Sticks' head in the urinal, facing outward.

A head in the head.

He thought it was genius. The Joker probably would, too.

He unzipped the lighter of the two bags as the next station approached. The doors opened and he let people push by him in their effort to get off. Making sure the bags concealed his movements, he pulled out Sticks' left arm, from the shoulder to the wrist, still clad by the bloody sleeve of his jacket. Curtis dropped it onto the floor and kicked it under a few seats.

He popped out of the train's car, and got behind a college student who was carrying a large tote bag. It had no closure at the top. He put Sticks' left hand in her bag, and turned to go the other way down the platform. As the train pulled off, he could see a bunch of people pointing and bending down near the doors.

Someone had discovered the arm.

Curtis walked up to a turnstile, placed the bags down, and pretended to be rifling through them looking for something, which, as it turned out, he technically _was_ doing. He pulled out Sticks' right foot and left it by the base of the turnstile. It was still in its shoe. It would look like someone had accidentally dropped a shoe from a gym bag, until someone looked closer.

Then he walked over to an area below the stairs where a homeless man sat, mumbling to himself, smelling strongly of his own urine. Exactly the kind of scene no one would want to look at too closely. Curtis bent down and dropped a quarter in the man's dingy ceramic mug. The man mumbled his thanks, and continued to talk in his gibberish directly to the mug on the ground in front of him. "Here man, this is a present to you from the Joker." Curtis pulled out Sticks' right leg, to match the foot resting by the turnstile, and handed it to the man. The blood was still damp on the jeans pant leg where the foot had come off, and up at the top where the femoral artery had spurted in a geyser of red. The homeless man cradled the severed leg and continued to mumble to himself. Curtis surreptitiously took a photo of the man, and then of the foot when he passed back by the turnstile again.

Along came another train. He hopped on.

A woman with twin boys sat on the far end of the car. The boys were probably about five or six, and she was reprimanding them for kicking a glass bottle around like a soccer ball. The other people on the train regarded the kids with annoyance. The next platform approached.

Curtis saw that the people exiting were obstructing the mother's view of the son closest to him. He pulled out Sticks' left foot, still wearing its Nike shoe, and handed it to the boy. "You can play with this. It won't make as much noise as the bottle when you kick it." The boy's mouth formed a perfect letter O as he looked at the blood soaked shoe, the sinew and bones protruding from where the machete had gone through the leg above the ankle.

Curtis smirked. The kid's face was priceless. He snapped a picture, and departed. Walking down the platform, he heard the woman scream. People looked in curiosity, and a few people went running toward the train. He took the opportunity to drop the lighter of the two bags on the platform, leaving the bag unzipped and Stick's left leg inside for someone to discover.

That left him with one bag. He exited through the turnstile, and climbed the stairs up to the street level. He looked inside.

Curtis had to hand it to the Joker… the guy knew what he was doing. All that remained was Sticks' torso, still connected to his right arm. The hand was still attached to the arm. The Joker had explained that leaving the arm attached would make the torso easier to toss, by using the arm as leverage.

Curtis walked by the bus stop. A crowd of about fifteen or so was waiting for the bus, which was approaching from down the street. Curtis looked around to make sure that no one was facing him, as he stopped about twenty yards closer to the approaching bus than the pack of people waiting for it. He placed the remaining bag on top of a trash receptacle and unzipped the top. He reached inside and took hold of the wrist of Sticks' right arm. He kept the bag's top flap folded over, obscuring the contents.

Here came the bus. It was full. Curtis looked over his shoulder in the opposite direction and smiled in malicious glee. Approaching from the opposite side of the street was another bus. Also full. They would drive right by each other.

Curtis waited until the approaching bus was about twenty feet from him. Then he yanked Sticks' torso out of the bag by the arm, spun, and let it go like a shot put.

It hit the windshield of the bus squarely in front of the driver, who screamed at the sight and sound.

In her reflexive reaction, she yanked the wheel hard to the left, in the opposite direction from which the body had been thrown. The bus was now headed into the oncoming lane of traffic, toward the other bus. The driver registered this, overcorrected, and she pulled hard on the wheel back over to the right. The bus jumped the curb, and struck the crowd of people waiting for the bus, who had no time to process what was happening to get away.

The bus came to a crashing halt when it struck a lamppost. People were screaming. The ones that were still alive were, anyway. Bodies lay broken and crushed under the colossal weight of the bus, and the injured inside moaned in pain and in terror. People's cars screeched to a halt at the sight, and crowds came running. The driver's body was slumped against the wheel, her head having cracked on the glass. The horn blazed in an unending wail under the weight of her lifeless body.

Curtis snapped a few pictures, crossed the street, then got back on the subway to return to the Downtown Crossing station.

________________________________

Jones parked the service van in an empty space next to a parking meter across from Flesh for Fantasy. Normally it was rare to find any parking except for valet in this neighborhood around 11:00pm, but the Joker's threats against Gotham had shuffled the deck of people's priorities. Not too many people were out seeking their kicks.

Jones was still in a fog over the incident at the Winter Hill Overpass. He couldn't remember most of the ride to the club. He drove based on Wallace's directions, not paying attention to street signs or landmarks. His body felt numb all over. Though his mind was catching up to his body quickly, it wasn't quick enough. The guilt and self-loathing at being involved in the evening's events was crushing him.

Wallace had also slipped into silence on the way over. The serious ramifications of losing his cell phone were really sinking in, and the closer they got to the club, the more the reality hit him that it could be a lot harder getting the phone back than he had first anticipated. The Joker would be dominating the news. At least one person at the club, Julian, probably knew that Wallace worked for the Joker. That could create a big problem.

As the death toll climbed around Gotham, the GPD was likely to post a reward for any information leading to the capture of the Joker.

The Joker's crew understood that the Mob, though not on friendly terms with the clown by any stretch of the imagination, still tried to keep any public knowledge of interaction with him to a minimum. They had witnessed evidence of this when Maroni was left to clean up after the Joker slaughtered Sticks at Rogue earlier that evening. But depending on the sum, a reward could be tempting enough for the Mob to consider breaking their unwritten accord with the Joker. Wallace considered that perhaps the Mob would be willing to turn him and Jones over to the Gotham Police.

As Wallace looked out the passenger window to Flesh for Fantasy, he realized jail time would probably be one of the _better_ case scenarios facing them, as awful as the prospect sounded.

Maybe Maroni's men would turn the two of them over to the GPD, after beating them to within an inch of their lives.

Maybe Maroni's men would just kill them outright, reward or no reward.

Perhaps the Mob would torture them into revealing where their base was, so they could hunt down the Joker themselves and be done with him.

Maybe they'd fail in that attempt (the Joker _did_ have a wily way of escaping), and then he and Jones would be left to face the Joker's wrath for getting caught in the first place.

This could play out a number of different ways, and the majority of the outcomes weren't pretty.

Best-case scenario, he and Jones would get into the club, find the phone, and get out without incident. It was _possible._ Wallace had to believe in that possibility. He _had_ to.

Because the worst-case scenario was… _unthinkable_ : if the Mob found Wallace's phone, and saw the photos he'd forgotten to delete, either Maroni's crew or the Joker would torture them to death.

He tried not to think about it. It was too upsetting, and throwing off his concentration. He and Jones needed to be sharp, so they could get in and get that phone back at all costs. If they couldn't get it back, perhaps he could destroy it.

Either way, the phone's content couldn't fall into the Mob's hands. Their lives depended on it.

_Time to do this._

Wallace opened the passenger door and yelled back at Jones. "C'mon, let's go!"

Jones absently turned to the younger man, stuck in his own mental fugue. "Huh?"

Wallace slapped the top of the open door in frustration. "Snap out of it, man! I can't have you checked out mentally on me, okay? I need you to be sharp to make sure the coast is clear while I try to find my phone."

Jones _was_ checking out mentally, he could feel it. It was the only way he could continue to move forward. _Sure, why not? I'd love to accompany you into an S &M club to search for a lost cell phone, so our psychopath boss doesn't filet our bodies alive for your sloppy handiwork. Watching a multi-car pile-up on the Gotham Expressway just didn't quite fulfill my entertainment needs for the night. The bridge blowing up also left much to be desired, so by all means, let's keep the hits comin'_.

He climbed out of the driver's seat and trailed Wallace across the street. Before they went down the alley, Wallace pulled him aside against the building opposite the club, and drew him close into a confidence. "When I came earlier to pick the stuff up, some meathead named Julian was guarding the side door where Maroni said I should enter. We've got to use that same door, because this place has got cameras all over the front."

Jones smiled. His incredulity at the danger of the situation eroded the gravity with which he should be treating their circumstances. "Maybe we should walk through the front door anyway. Hey, let's do that. Let's tell them that we're looking for a cell phone containing photos that you took of _their_ patrons in compromising situations. I'm sure they'd be more than willing to help us find it."

Wallace's expression soured.

The older man continued. "And while we're at it, let's let them know that you lost the phone because you were busy stealing props when a Dominatrix' back was turned. How 'bout that?"

Jones started to laugh. He was on a roll. "And let's not forget to let everyone know who we work for, because any tie to the Joker is _so_ well received in this town!"

Wallace couldn't reply.

Jones ran his fingers through his hair, tipped his head back, then leaned forward to look Wallace in the face again. "God _damn it,_ Wallace! Of all the places to lose your phone, you lose it in a sex club owned by the _Mob?!_ You _know_ the bad blood between them and the Joker! You don't think they'd like to track him down for the money he stole from them and _burned_? Do you really think they'd distinguish between him and _us_ when it's time for payback?"

Wallace could feel his bravado failing fast. He felt sick to his stomach again. For all Jones' sarcasm in summing up their dire straits, his cohort still didn't know just how bad it really was.

Jones kicked at a discarded paper cup. "If you've got any information in that phone that could lead them to where we're hiding, we're all dead. You _get_ that, don't you? We're all _dead!_ "

Wallace had gone white. He closed his eyes and shook his head back and forth. He visibly started to shake. When he opened his eyes they were glassy with tears. He had to get it off his chest. "It's worse than that."

Jones scoffed. He didn't see how it could be any worse. "No, it _can't_ be any worse, Wallace—"

" _It is!"_ Wallace rubbed his hands on the front of his pant legs and turned to pace back and forth. He was mumbling more to himself than to Jones. "Stupid! What a fucking idiot! I never should have taken them. I should have erased them immediately. I wasn't gonna keep 'em, you know? It was a joke. I can't believe I was so fuckin' stupid to let Curtis talk me into it. I should have just erased the photos—"

"Photos of the patrons here at the club?"

Wallace had tears coming down his face. "No, man." He leaned into Jones and whispered: "Photos of the _weapons."_

A moment of silence passed.

Then another.

Jones processed Wallace's confession.

The neon sign hummed above them, the only sound in the alley.

The silence stretched on.

Jones' mouth slowly opened. "You—you, did. No, you d—didn't. Y—you and Cur—" Jones started to hyperventilate. He slowly turned around, spinning for air before circling back to face the man who had just signed their death warrant. "Aw, Jesus. Jesus fuckin' Christ. Jesus fucking _CHRIST!_ Tell me you _didn't_!"

Wallace hung his head in shame and nodded.

Jones grabbed Wallace gruffly, and spat his words into his ear, to try to keep his voice from carrying. "You took _photos_ of the stash we intercepted from the Mob to the _Belarussians_?!"

Wallace lifted his head and his voice was small. "Curtis thought it would be cool to take photos posing next to the haul. We each wanted to hold the ground-to-air missile launcher."

Jones was stunned. This was about the most ignorant thing he had ever heard, and they could all die for it.

Jones took a deep breath. Then he punched Wallace in the face. He shook his head, watching the blood seep from Wallace's split lip. "You dumb fucking son of a bitch."

________________________________

The Joker had seemed to fade into the woodworks in the eyes of Gothamites in the last several months, because a more pressing danger had come to the forefront: the streets had become a bloodbath between Maroni's people, Sergei Kruzynski's crew and the Chinese triad gangs.

Ironically, it was the Joker himself who was the architect to the foundation of this street war.

The Joker had a way of unearthing imminent clandestine deals in the underworld of crime. He had learned that the Mob and the Belarussians had brokered a deal: Maroni would provide weapons for Kruzynski's insurgent compatriots outside Minsk in return for a hefty sum of money. So on the night the deal went down, the Joker's crew followed Maroni and his men, and positioned themselves unseen just behind the Mafia.

Only weeks earlier, the Joker had recruited a former Arkham patient named Lundgren: an ex-Marine sniper with a severe case of post-traumatic stress disorder and borderline personality disorder. He was brought in specifically for this assignment.

The exchange happened shortly after midnight. Once the money was in the Mob's hands, and the Belarussians were eyeing their haul in the back of a stolen moving truck, Lundgren had started firing shots at the Belarussians from behind Maroni's men. He hit the man poised to climb into the driver's seat of the moving van, and then he hit Kruzynski's second in command. The Belarussians assumed the shots came from Maroni's crew, so they opened fire on the Mob.

Most of the Joker's men hung back and watched as the Mob and the Belarussians nearly decimated each other right there on the spot. During the gunplay, Lundgren continued to take down anyone attempting to drive the truck away with the weapons in the back. After 4 men had been shot in their attempt, Wallace had run out wearing a ski mask and a gang jacket from the most notorious Chinese triad gang in Gotham. Wallace hijacked the truck, and Lundgren continued to pick off anyone trying to stop him. At Lundgren's side, the Joker pulled out used a SIG 556, also stolen from the Chinese triad, to mow down more of the Belarussians. After everyone eventually scattered, the Joker discarded the weapon in a trash bin where he knew it would inevitably be discovered by the police.

The Belarussians believed they'd been double-crossed by the Mafia.

The Mafia thought they'd been sabotaged by the Chinese.

The Chinese claimed no knowledge of the transaction or the current whereabouts of the intercepted weapons, and that they'd been a scapegoat fabricated by the Mafia.

And so the fighting had begun among Gotham's most ruthless crime lords. All the while, it had been the Clown Prince of Crime who had instigated it all.

Before his stint in Arkham, the Joker had sought to make himself as public as possible in taking credit for criminal acts, seizing any opportunity he could to get his face into the public's mind, to establish himself as a force to be reckoned with. That was when the Batman was still a known collaborator with the GPD.

After escaping Arkham, knowing that the Batman had gone dark, the Joker had pursued a different strategy. He would stay in the shadows and let the gangs eradicate each other, courtesy of the catalyst he provided with the weapons heist. Those groups would draw the focus of the Gotham Police Department's attentions.

The Joker wasn't interested in territorial pursuits. His pursuit was the Batman. Staying below the GPD's radar himself would further him toward this goal. Thus far, the plan appeared to be on course. And it would stay on course.

Unless it were revealed that the Joker had orchestrated the hostilities to begin with.

Photos in Wallace's phone of the stolen weapons would be all the evidence the Mafia needed of the clown's involvement in the weapons heist. Word of a con of that magnitude pulled on the Mafia, the Belarussians and the Chinese triad gangs would spread through Gotham's underworld like wildfire. Retribution would be hell.

If that happened, it was anyone's guess as to which group would be the first to hunt the Joker and his crew down and tear them to pieces. Slowly and agonizingly.

________________________________

Wallace wiped at his bleeding lip with the back of his hand, and used his sleeve to wipe the tears from his face.

Jones looked down the alley toward the side entrance of Flesh for Fantasy. "Wallace, if we're going to do this, I want to get it over with. Let's just go inside. Whatever happens, happens. We've just got to do whatever we can to get the phone back. Or better yet, destroy it."

Wallace nodded and followed Jones' gaze to the side entryway. "The first thing we have to do is figure out what we'll say to—"

_Julian. Julian isn't there._

Jones saw it, too. The steps were unguarded, and they lead up to a door that was not only ajar, but seemed to be hanging in the frame at an odd angle, as if it had been broken. Both men looked at each other. This could be just the break they needed.

Wallace shrugged. "Man, if we're gonna go, now's our chance."

________________________________

The Joker stood up and walked over to Lois, who lay unconscious on the floor. Barker was still stretched out against her. He hadn't been given instruction otherwise.

"You can get up now, Barker."

The mask nodded, and Barker backed up on his hands and knees before standing up. His gaze was trained on Mr. Joker, who stood at the woman's side with his feet wide apart, hands down at his sides, head tipped forward and downward menacingly. Barker remained silent, waiting for further acknowledgement. He could wait as long as it took.

It didn't take long. The Joker didn't move his head, but raised his eyes to look at him through the tangles of hair that had fallen across his forehead. "You head on down to get the ah, idiot box set up" (smack) "and I'll be down shortly."

Barker backed up to the door before turning to leave, fearing it an insult to turn his back on Mr. Joker. He had read that emperors had subjects killed for the insolence of turning their back to them. Barker didn't want to commit so egregious a transgression; not for fear of the repercussions, but for fear of offending _him._ Once out in the hallway, he turned and ran downstairs to get everything set up. He wanted Mr. Joker to be pleased when he came downstairs.

After Barker left, the Joker unrolled the sleeves of his shirt and buttoned them at the cuffs. He closed his eyes to recalibrate himself. When he opened them again, they swept over Lois from head, to toe, and back up again. He assessed her.

The Joker assessed her, as the agent of chaos that he was.

Chaos was borne out of the destruction of _con_ structions; the contrivances of a society that fabricated rules to include and especially to _ex_ clude. He would help her see how she fit into the great falsehood she helped to perpetuate. He would deconstruct her. He had already begun, and he would continue. He would shower her with chaos. She would eventually thank him for it. Wasn't chaos, in and of itself, art?

He walked around her body slowly, to view her from the other side. He assessed her.

The Joker assessed her, as the artist that he was.

The artist sees things others do not. Others view a form, while the artist appreciates the space around the form. Others see the softness, while the artist sees the cruelty that contains and defines the softness. Others view the object as it is, while the artist views the object as it could be. He could see what Lois could be, and he would help her see the art in his work. Wasn't art, in and of itself, beauty?

He walked over to shut off the lights. He returned to her, bent deep at the knees and cocked his head to look at her face. He assessed her.

The Joker assessed her, as the beautiful monster that he was.

He saw the beauty in fear, in pain, in suffering, and in death. He could exact any of these experiences on whomever he chose. He chose Lois. She was already a pretty woman, but he could make her truly beautiful. He could bring her experiences that would carve out of her the useless emotions that shackled her, like hope and pathos. He could make her a monster, for all his type of beauty he would bring her. He'd done it before, when he made Dent beautiful. Wasn't beauty, in and of itself, chaos?

He stood up and walked out of the room, closing the door behind him, leaving Lois in the darkness. He wanted to see the chaos that he had brought Gotham tonight. It would be artistic, and it assuredly would be beautiful.

________________________________

. . . . . . .

Author's Notes for "Agent of Chaos"

. . . . . . .

_In my mind, there is a cyclical relationship that the Joker draws between chaos, art and beauty/terror. They are all connected, and cannot be extracted from each other. For this story, I don't see the Joker as being capable of love. I see him as being obsessed with these concepts, and his true passion lies in bringing them to fruition. I guess his other passion would be taunting the Batman (for all the chaos that brings), and getting his perverse kicks as he does so._

_-4oC 2008.11.30_


	23. Bravado and Treachery

* **BRAVADO AND TREACHERY ***

**Chapter 23**

**. . . . . . .**

The Joker sat on the back of the tattered sofa, feet on the seat cushions, leaning forward to rest his forearms on his knees as he watched the television. He held the remote control in one hand, and he played with a butterfly knife in the other.

Gotham Cable News featured two banners scrolling along the bottom of the screen. The top banner ran the breaking news summaries, listing the recorded disturbances around Gotham that were being attributed to the Joker's threats. A projected casualty count for each event trailed its listing. The bottom banner repeated the same feed on a loop with the title "In Memoriam", listing the names of the GCN news crew that had been killed earlier by the blast that hit the Oak Grove Retirement Home bus.

The Joker's second video that Barker had fed the station had been set to play on a loop for a finite amount of time, allowing for 'regular' programming to follow thereafter. Naturally, the programming that resumed ended up dissecting the video that had just finished playing repeatedly. The total number of repetitions the video ran while on a loop was orchestrated to stop at the point that would allow ample airtime for the video to saturate the media, ensuring that everyone was well aware of the Joker's threats against the city.

Then when the barrage of attacks unfolded on schedule throughout Gotham shortly thereafter, they'd know that he meant business.

And the Joker _did_ mean business. He had a point to prove.

He was not to be underestimated, and he didn't take kindly to being overlooked.

Time had a way of fading even recent history quickly. A year out of the public eye can cause a clown to lose a bit of clout. But with his face and televised threat so prominently plastered everywhere, the Joker knew: he knew they would quickly _remember_ what he had done to Gotham a year ago _._ They would remember the citizens whom he had killed because the Batman would not reveal his identity. They would remember the murder of the Police Commissioner. They would remember his demolition of the hospital and his attempt to blow up the ferries.

The citizens of Gotham would remember all of it, and heed his warning to leave the city. He wanted to give the fools the false hope that they had a fighting chance. It was… entertaining.

Then he'd given them a reminder they'd never forget.

He would destroy as he chose. He would kill as he chose.

He'd remind them that he had the means and the willingness to bring chaos to the city. He always had, that hadn't changed. But the magnitude of his influence had changed. It had swelled.

The Mob wasn't the only group that had infiltrated positions of responsibility on the city's payroll.

The Joker's reach extended further than most suspected. He had his minions that stayed close to him. But there were others. Others who appeared to live 'regular' lives and hold 'regular' jobs.

He'd spent the last six months out of Arkham _cultivating._ The Joker had wanted to make sure that when he made his inevitable return to the forefront of the public eye, it would be permanent. He had bided his time, and exercised patience, waiting for the right catalyst to come along. Though he had been blindsided by the airing of _Metropolis Live,_ it had presented him with exactly the impetus he needed to make his return.

He was the one who would have the last laugh, not Gotham. He had left an indelible mark on the city before, and he would do so again.

He was not one to be mocked. He was not one to be ignored. Not by anyone.

Not even the Batman.

As he watched evidence of his total domination over the city unfold before him on the television, he nodded his head in accordance with his thoughts.

 _This town is_ mine _. Everything in Gotham is_ mine _. That includes_ you, _Batman._

________________________________

Off to the side of the GPD news conference, Detective Murdock watched the mayor and commissioner intently. For all intents and purposes, they were getting slaughtered by the media. It was tough to watch.

He felt a tug on his shirt, and turned to see a dispatcher hand him transcripts of 911 calls that were flooding in from around Gotham. He stepped further away from the pressroom and into a corner to rifle through the paperwork. Gordon had requested that Murdock look the transcripts over to pick out anything salient that they could work with. He had a better eye for catching signs of the Joker's handiwork than other detectives. He was almost as astute as Gordon, which was why the commissioner trusted him to ferret out the legitimate leads from the empty ones.

Someone had reported a sighting of a suspicious service van at the Winter Hill Overpass, and had provided a partial license plate description. _Bingo._ Murdock pulled that transcript to the side, and looked through the rest. There were a few other accounts of men seen sneaking around in the areas where some explosions had detonated, with vague, but valuable, descriptions. He pulled those transcripts out, too. New calls were coming in from the subway. Someone reported seeing a large man carrying two oversized dark blue duffle bags talking to a homeless man, who was found subsequently holding onto a severed human leg. Murdock shook his head in disbelief. He pulled that transcript aside, too.

The cell phone in his back pocket started to vibrate. He looked around furtively to see if anyone could hear its buzzing noise. No one did, and no one would have cared if they had. The other officers were too wrapped up in the press conference and the buzz of activity that had the GPD on high alert. Murdock turned toward the wall, pulled out the phone, and held it down low to read the display: **K, D at TB. LLH at GIA. Set.**

_Kosaczyk and Darnell were set at the tollbooth with the machine gun and camera. Lundgren, Lucas and Hobbs were at the Gotham International Airport. Set for action._

Murdock cleared the display and stuck the phone back in his pocket.

He shook his head again at the transcript of the severed leg at the subway station. _Jesus, Curtis, could you be a little sloppier with your work?_

After confirming that he had winnowed out the strongest leads to the Joker from the rest of the transcripts, he took those papers into the copier room. It was empty. He looked around to ensure no one had seen him enter.

He moved the recycling bin away from the paper shredder, and replaced it with with a regular garbage bin. Then he stuck the transcripts into the paper shredder. He replaced the regular recycling bin back below the shredder, opened up a few bottles of white-out, and dumped them onto the shredded transcripts in the garbage. He wanted to get them good and sticky, ensuring that no one would want to reach into the garbage to retrieve them. Then he dropped a few manila folders on top of the shredded paper, to help obscur the transcripts further.

He stepped back out into the foyer outside the pressroom. He picked up the remaining stack of transcripts and held them, patiently waiting for the press conference to conclude. At that time, he would express with regret to Commissioner Gordon that none of the transcripts provided any leads to the Joker.

________________________________

Curtis got back into the Lincoln and drove away from the parking lot near the Downtown Crossing station of Gotham's subway. The rush of testosterone-driven cockiness made him feel ready to take on the entire city himself. He was riding the high from the trail of gore and mayhem he had left in the subway. He swelled with self-congratulatory pride, reveling in his own cleverness at documenting his assignment in a way that would allow him to savor it again and again.

God, he was smart for taking pictures of it all.

Sure, Wallace and Jones had caused a larger-scale incident than he had, and the events that were still to come at the tollbooth and at the airport would be bigger still. But none of the guys would have the proximity to capture the details of their chores like he had. Documentation was important. Visual impact was important. This is what he had learned from the Joker.

Curtis had tried to study the Joker whenever the opportunity presented itself. He had noticed that the clown took tremendous pleasure not only in mass chaos, but also in the smaller scale details. He could torture and taunt masses of people or individuals. He was a master at both the infinite and the finite in the realm of pain. Recording his actions only served to make the Joker more fearsome, showing an unabashed pride in his own work.

 _Well, I can do that. Hell, I can_ definitely _do that._

In fact, Curtis bet that he could probably taunt people better than the Joker could. _Fuckin' A, I could. I should be the next 'Joker'._ The thought hadn't really occurred to him before, but it seemed like a pretty good idea. The Joker couldn't be top of the food chain in Gotham's underworld of crime forever, so why couldn't Curtis have his shot at the top? He liked violence as much as the Joker. His wagered that his sense of humor was probably better.

He pulled over into the parking lot of a 24-hour liquor store, got out and went in for some Jack Daniels. He wasn't even back in the car yet before he'd opened up a bottle and started drinking. The more he thought about it, the more his confidence grew. _I should just knock off the clown myself and start goin' around in the make up, scarin' the shit out of everyone. I bet I could do as good a job as he does. I could get the hang of it fast. I'm a pretty fast study._

He took another deep swig, then pulled out his cell phone and turned on the camera display. He flipped through all the photos he'd taken. He laughed at the shocked face of the kid holding the shoe with a foot still in it. The shot of the bodies crushed by the bus was a fairly good picture as well. But the one of Sticks' head was definitely the best, and was certainly his favorite. He grinned from ear to ear as he looked at it. _I gotta show this one to Wallace. He'll bust a nut laughing when he sees it._

Curtis looked at his watch. It was 11:25 pm. Too soon to head back. The Joker had given them explicit instructions not to return before 1:00 am. Curtis wondered if the Joker had special plans with the kidnapped reporter. He shook his head at the thought. Not likely. _The guy didn't even have the balls to stick it to that bitch like he shoulda earlier. There's no way he's doing anything with her now. What a fuckin' waste. If anything, he's probably in the basement letting Barker blow him._ Curtis cringed at the thought. Maybe that's why the Joker didn't want them back before 1:00 am, so the freaks could have their playtime together.

This curious time constriction gave Curtis an idea. If the Joker weren't expecting them back so soon, and Curtis were to surprise him, it would be an excellent opportunity to just bump the clown off. The element of surprise could work in his favor. He was physically bigger and stronger than the Joker, and if he got the upperhand quickly, he could probably break the clown's neck, or at least beat him badly enough to buy enough time to reach for a gun to finish him off.

If he were to kill the Joker, every crime lord in Gotham would be kissing his ass. He'd have the town by the balls.

It was a brilliant idea, and the more he drank, the more convinced he became that it was his ticket to the top. Curtis started up the car to head back to their base of operation. He picked up the phone one more time, to look at the photo of Sticks' head in the urinal. He couldn't stop laughing. The photo was so fucking awesome, he couldn't wait for 1:00 am for Wallace to see it. A piece of work this priceless needed to be appreciated. He wanted him to see it _now._

Curtis dialed Wallace's number, confirmed his photo selection, and hit the Send button.

Then he drove back toward the direction of the wharf, wondering what tawdry situation he might find his boss in when he surprised him with an early return. His money was on finding him nailing Barker. He was sure that was how the Joker swung.

Curtis thought about how he would kill the Joker, and what fun he'd have with the bitch, if she were still alive. He snickered to himself. _Hell, even if she_ isn't _still alive..._

________________________________

At Flesh for Fantasy, Pink Sarah was at the vanity in front of her locker, taking off her false eyelashes. Her shift was up, and she was ready to head home. Her mother would have put her 3-year old son to bed hours ago, but she considered sneaking into his room when she got home to wake him up anyway for a hug. She needed a reminder for why she allowed herself to be debased each time she came to work. Sometimes life as a submissive was a bitch. The money was good, but you didn't leave with much dignity each night.

Her moment of career-choice reevaluation was interrupted by a brief humming sound. She cocked her head toward the noise. It started up again, but changed from a humming to a low rattle. It was coming from the side of her vanity, the side that bordered Mistress Femke's vanity. She turned toward the pile of leftover accessories that Vinnie's friend didn't need, when he stopped by earlier to borrow some of her things. The buzz seemed to come from that direction.

Pink Sarah stilled herself, listening closely for the noise to start up again. When it did, she moved her cotton candy-colored feather boa, leather leash and a few scarves.

Underneath them, she saw a highline cell phone that was drumming its way across the surface of the vanity, as the ringer had been shut off and set to vibrate. It was a phone that she didn't recognize. She picked it up and studied it. It didn't look like it was Femke's, and most of the other women who shared the dressing room had phones with glittery face colors. Nothing quite this high tech. She looked around to ask if someone had left it, but there was no one else in the dressing room. Then she reasoned that the cell phone probably belonged to the guy who had stopped by earlier for the pick up. She didn't get his name. Shame, too. He was a decent looking guy, and couldn't be all bad if he were a friend of Vinnie's. Vinnie had always taken good care of her.

The phone vibrated again in her hand. She hesitated. It could just be someone trying to reach the guy, but maybe it was the owner himself calling, hoping someone could answer to verify his phone's location. Pink Sarah had misplaced her cell phone before, so she knew what a panic a person could get into when their phone went missing. She decided to take the chance that it _was_ the owner calling, so she could confirm that he'd left his phone there at the club.

She furrowed her brow, trying to determine which button to push. She settled on the button with the green icon of a phone receiver on it, and pressed it. She brought the phone up to her ear and spoke. "Hello?"

Nothing. "Hello-oooo?" Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the phone light up. She brought it around in front of her to look at it.

The digital display had illuminated. A photo appeared. Pink Sarah's mouth fell open.

________________________________

. . . . . . .

Author's Notes for "Bravado and Treachery"

. . . . . . .

_I envision the GPD being infiltrated to a higher level by underground criminals since the Batman went dark. They would be less likely to feel that their duplicity would be detected, if the Batman weren't around making unannounced visits at crime scenes and in the station. Without the assistance of the Batman, I could see Gordon becoming more frayed as the street wars escalate, consuming his waking hours. He wouldn't have the luxury of being able to keep as sharp an eye as usual on the people with whom he surrounds himself._

_Curtis strikes me as one of those XYY-chromosomed men that you may have heard about. They're men with an extra Y chromosome who are prone to excessive violence and bravado naturally. They tend to end up in maximum security prisons, more often than not. Curtis harbors exactly the kind of traits that could end up tripping him up if he doesn't watch his step around the Joker, or if he gets too confident in his own perceived capabilities._

_-4oC 2008.12.06_


	24. Omnipresence

*** OMNIPRESENCE ***

**Chapter 24**

**. . . . . . .**

As the Joker watched the news, Barker furtively watched him from the side of the room. His head turned back and forth, from the television to the brooding figure who sat atop the back of the couch. Barker didn't know which one to watch. He wanted to look at the flesh and blood version of Mr. Joker that sat only a few yards away from him, but he felt that he should watch the TV, since that's what Mr. Joker was doing.

Barker noted the air of discontent that hung in the room. Mr. Joker was watching the footage chronicling all that he had accomplished so early into the night, but he didn't seem pleased. Mr. Joker seemed decidedly… _dis_ pleased.

The Joker took no note of Barker at all. He had other matters on his mind.

Well into the eleven o'clock news hour, GCN was abuzz with incoming reports chronicling his handiwork. Multiple commentaries from guest analysts were being fed in simultaneously via satellite, leaving the news hosts to try to play referee to the verbal bandying that unfolded. Each specialist in their field of expertise was jockeying for the lead position, claiming that their analysis of the Joker's siege on Gotham was of paramount importance.

GCN was focusing more camera time on their commentators than on video evidence of his destruction around the city. It was pissing him off.

The Joker restlessly bounced to another station, the ABC affiliate in Gotham. The news host was drawing a comparison between the explosion of the retirement home bus and the hospital a year earlier. He chewed the side of his mouth in annoyance. Though analysis did hold merit in helping to rile the citizens of Gotham with fear, it was boring. _Borrr_ - _ring_. He wanted to see footage of destruction. That held impact. He absently scratched the back of his head, and flipped the channel again.

Next he landed on the NBC affiliate. They were listing the locations of random explosions that citizens were phoning the station to report. A townhouse had exploded in a small community. So had a van at St. Domenic's Catholic church. Someone reported that a Laundromat had gone up in flames, and people above it were trapped and no one could get to them. A night guard at a bank had reported an explosion in the building's parking deck. An IHOP filled with university kids close to Gotham U's main campus had been blown sky-high. A hysterical woman's phone call was aired live as she sobbed about a daycare center for autistic children blowing up down the street from her apartment building.

The Joker straightened himself up, swung his legs around to the side of the armrest and stood up next to the couch. He crossed his arms, kept his chin tucked down and his eyes focused forward. He closed the butterfly knife but wove it between his fingers in a constant dance. With a sharp flick of his wrist, he changed the channel again.

The next channel he landed on was showing a live helicopter feed of the aftermath at the Winter Hill Overpass. The Joker raised his eyebrows when he saw that traffic had piled up in _both_ directions. The corners of his marred mouth turned up in a smile. A tie-up in both directions on the Gotham Expressway was unexpected… but certainly appreciated. He wasn't sure how Wallace and Jones had pulled it off, but he'd have to congratulate them on a job well done.

He flipped the channel again. And again.

Seeing his name on the screen on channel after channel brought him satisfaction. He was amused at hearing the psychiatrists offer up their futile attempts at diagnoses, peddling their explanations for motives that would drive a man to contrive the image that he had composed, to act as he did and to crave wanton destruction. He scoffed at their hypotheses. Any random person on the street could offer a guess as to the Joker's true modus operandi, and it wouldn't be any further away from the truth than the diagnoses of these so-called specialists.

_Call in as many doctors as you want. You'll never hit the mark._

He flipped the channel again, and his eyes twinkled at the sight of the live press conference. Commissioner Gordon was being hounded by the press, with Mayor Garcia standing close by. The Joker pocketed the knife, hopped onto the couch and leaned forward with intent, tilting his head to the side as he viewed the screen. He drummed the fingers of his left hand on his thigh as he rested the weight of his upper body on his right forearm, TV remote in hand.

Both men looked as if they'd aged overnight. The creases in the commissioner's face had deepened. Gordon's assurances that the GPD was doing everything in its power to stop him sounded so scripted. So hollow. They were the declarations of a man who sounded like he was trying to convince himself as much as the public whom he was sworn to protect.

_Do you know how empty your promises of protection sound, Commissionerrrr?_

Even the mayor seemed to be distancing himself from Gordon. Someone was going to be the fall guy for this, and Garcia didn't want to ally himself too closely with the most likely candidate.

_You're alone, Gordon. You know that now, more than ever, don't you?_

Gordon pushed his glasses back up in place and motioned to a screen behind him. The lights dimmed, and the Joker's first video that Barker had fed exclusively to the Gotham Police Department started to play.

When Barker saw how closely Mr. Joker was studying the screen, he took the opportunity to sit on the couch, too. On the far end, of course, but he was demonstrating his attentiveness to Mr. Joker's work. Both he and Mr. Joker watched as Commissioner Gordon narrated parts of the video.

Gordon warned that the footage received by the GPD was extremely graphic. He announced that the woman in the video, _Daily Planet_ reporter and _Metropolis Live_ guest host Lois Lane, had gone missing on her way to an appointment in Gotham, and was now a hostage of the Joker's. He asked that anyone who may have seen her in Gotham notify the police immediately with a location of a possible sighting. He was also asking that anyone who recognized the dead man in the video (going on what was left of Mooney's face) contact the police with information.

The Joker sighed in resignation as he watched the video on TV. He was disappointed that the footage didn't seem to translate the crackle of fear in the air when Lois discovered she'd been lying on a corpse. It had been so much more fun to see the events unfold in person. On TV it just seemed… flat.

After the video ended, Gordon held up his hand in an effort to quell the constant questions. He announced a tip hotline, asking for citizens to report any news that could lead to the location or true identity of the Joker. A reward of $5 million was also being offered for information leading to the capture and conviction of the clown. The Joker smiled at this revelation. _Even if you catch me, how're ya gonna convict me? I was in Arkhammmmm. I'll just plead insanity._ Maybe that was the strategy of the city all along, so they wouldn't have to make good on their monetary dangling carrot. It was the typical bureaucratic shit that every big city pulled.

Mayor Garcia placed his hand on Gordon's shoulder, and the careworn officer stepped away from the podium. The Joker studied the man who was, in a sense, another product of his chaos. Had the Joker not murdered Commissioner Loeb, Gordon might still have some semblance of a life as a lieutenant in the force. The mantle he wore as commissioner was heavy on his shoulders. He had been a rather svelte man to begin with, but the Joker noted that now he was positively gaunt. _And the camera adds ten pounds. Eat a cheeseburger, would ya, Jim? And super-size your fries while you're at it._

The Joker rumbled out a menacing laugh. Gordon had no idea that one of his most trusted men in the force was in the clown's back pocket. He considered Gordon's haggard visage again. _So that's what sabotage and treachery do to an honest man._ All the more reason to stay dishonest. He saw no reason to order Murdock to kill Gordon, despite ample opportunity to do so. No… this was much more entertaining. Watching Gordon slowly crumble bit by bit, all the while perpetuating his own delusion that he was making a difference, gave the Joker a sense of accomplishment. Dent was dead, the Batman had fled, and Gordon was the lone one standing whose life had been forever changed at the Joker's hands.

The Joker eyed the remote, and flipped the channel one last time. It landed on the GCN affiliate show _Gotham Tonight,_ hosted by Mike Engel. Engel looked pasty-white with fear on screen. The Joker couldn't help but chuckle at the sight. After his fun blowing up the hospital a year earlier, Engel had been on the bus hijacked by the Joker and his crew. The Joker had painted Engel's face himself before stringing him upside-down to read his latest threat into a camera.

Engel now read reports of calls coming in from the Gotham subway. A bus had crashed into a crowd at street level, and parts of a dismembered body were being found at different points along the East-West line. The news host seemed more than a little rattled as he chronicled the events of the evening, and was visibly sweating on screen. The Joker made a mental note to himself to send Engel a Hallmark card, expressing concern that the news anchor's PTSD was under control and he was well down the path to healing.

It had to be a bit _unsettling_ for Engel to have to narrate further mayhem caused by his own former kidnapper, once again at large in Gotham.

During the Joker's stay at Arkham, rumors had sifted down even to the levels of solitary confinement that Engel had his own brief stint in the asylum. Or at the very least, he had been a patient of one of the Arkham doctors to treat his post-traumatic stress disorder from the kidnapping. The Joker hoped he had been an inpatient. That would give them so much to talk about, should he ever need to kidnap a reporter—

-ah, but he didn't need to kidnap Mike Engel again, and certainly not tonight. He _already_ had a kidnapped reporter upstairs. The Joker eyed the clock in the corner of the news display on the screen. In fact, it was about time to wake Sleeping Beauty up for Round Two.

All in all, the evening was unfolding as planned. The Joker's domination of the media was unquestioned, and Gotham was thrown back into a state of terror as the Joker laid siege to the city. Even the police were back in the mix.

_Just like old times. Only one thing missing now._

He had quietly baited the Batman in the last six months, allowing the war on the streets between the Belarussians, the Mob and the Chinese triad gangs to tie up the GPD's resources. Since the Batman had chosen to fly under the radar, so had the Joker, mirroring his rival's moves. No more. It was time to take center stage once again. He felt a mounting anticipation that his rival would join him in the spotlight at last.

_Come out, come out, wherever you are._

As the news station's onscreen clock rolled to 11:30 pm, the fresh half hour reset the news broadcast with a recap of everything that had transpired around the city in the last few hours. It was a rather lengthy recap. _Remember me, Gotham? I'm here. I've always been here. Unlike the Batman, I didn't run and hide._

The Joker stood up and tossed the remote onto the couch. His hands were at his sides, twitching. They needed something to do. They needed something to agitate. Something to play with. Some _one_ to play with. The Joker slowly turned his head toward Barker. His Chelsea grin drew back far enough to bare his maxillary canines.

"Barkerrrr?"

Barker jumped up off the couch and stood attentively, adjusting his clown mask to better see Mr. Joker. The eyeholes shifted from time to time when the bottom of his mask would catch on his collar. "Yes sir?"

"Follow. Meeee." The Joker turned to walk out of the room. With considerable agility, he bounded up the stairs, taking them two at a time to the third floor. Barker struggled to keep up.

The problem with staging a multiple-front attack on the city was that a guy just couldn't be there to witness each event unfold in person. Before he could head out for his Big Appearance later, he was confined to the lair, watching as evidence of his handiwork poured through the media. To be sure, it was fair that they were giving him the merit that he had rightly earned, but something was missing.

Watching people's fear on television wasn't the same thing as experiencing it in person. That was where the fun lay.

That was one of the purposes of The Room, and the Joker had a guest to attend to inside.

________________________________

Wallace and Jones scurried down the alley to the side entryway of Flesh for Fantasy, ready to duck in to attempt to retrieve Wallace's lost cell phone. Once they reached the steps leading up to the doorway, they could see that the door had been pulled or struck hard enough to have come unhinged. They exchanged glances with each other, and climbed the stairs with trepidation.

The sound of a woman crying carried down the alley from the front of the building. Wallace turned to see what the woman was whimpering about, stopping in the doorway and inadvertently blocking Jones from following him in.

Jones urged him onward in a hushed but stern tone. "We don't have time to dawdle, get a move on!"

Then a man's voice wafted down toward them. "Jenny! Jenny, wait. It's okay."

Jones looked at the back of Wallace's head, whose eyes were trained on the voices. Jones felt like clubbing his cohort's head with a two-by-four. It appeared that Wallace wanted to play voyeur to some lovers' spat, but now was not the time. "Wallace, move your ass—"

Wallace spat his words out in a croaked whisper. " _Holy SHIT_!" Even in profile, Jones could see Wallace's eyes bugging out of his head. He turned to follow Wallace's line of sight. The couple whose voices came down the alley was stopped in plain view under a streetlamp, oblivious to both Wallace and Jones.

Jones' gaze rested on a man in a long purple coat, with tangled green-tinted hair. The white greasepaint nearly glowed against the dark street's backdrop. Basalt orbs hovered in the white face, cut neatly by a blood-red swath of red at the mouth.

In an instant of ice-cold fear, Jones' heart stopped and he felt as though his bowels would betray him and he'd leave evidence right there on the steps of just how much his crew's leader scared him. Wallace nearly threw up on the spot.

"Jenny, don't be upset. We'll never come back here again."

The sobbing woman clutched at her coat and spun on the man who trailed her. "You're God damned right we're never coming back here – we just got _thrown out_ , Harold! I can't believe we were stupid enough to bring… _this_ … into this club!"

"Listen, it was my fault, okay? I was the one who pressured you into this. Don't be ashamed."

Wallace and Jones processed the exchange. They looked at each other, relief washing over them. It wasn't the Joker. Just some bored husband with absolutely no concept of propriety, who wanted to spice things up with his wife by playing dress-up. Of all the kinky role-playing to choose from, this guy had to pick the _Joker_?

"I'm not ashamed, Harold. I'm completely shocked! Don't you watch the news? Don't you know who that was who threw us out?" She pointed at the building for emphasis. "That was Vinnie Maroni! He's in the _Mob_!"

Her husband shook his head. "Of course I've heard of him, but I didn't know what he looked like."

"Harold!" She slapped her hands down at her sides in exasperation. "The Joker hit a series of banks in Gotham about a year ago, specifically to steal the Mob's money! He stole _millions_ from them! And we go waltzing into a club that the Mob runs, with you dressed _up_ like him?!"

Harold blinked as he processed what his wife was saying. She continued: "My God, Harold, we're lucky that they didn't break every bone in our bodies for this! Flaunting any reference to the Joker in this place is practically a death wish!"

Again, Wallace and Jones eyed each other. The irony of her words was not lost on them.

"Sweetie, again, I'm sorry. Let's just get out of here and go home. I'll get rid of this outfit and burn it, and we'll never talk about this again."

Jenny stepped up to him and grabbed him roughly by the tie. "Burn this outfit? Not on your life!" She started to giggle. "We'll just take it back home, and pick up where we left off. I'm just a girl who's lost her way... and some of her clothes... in the big city. I'm just hoping that no _bad_ _men_ out there take advantage of me." She threw her arms around her husband's neck and kissed him.

He pulled back, smiled broadly, and took her by the hand as he led her to their car. "Well, I think that the _Joker_ might want to show the pretty lady how he treats women who _lose things_."

The couple ducked out of sight, their laughter carrying down the alley to the two incredulous men who stood frozen on the steps.

Wallace fought the urge to gag. _Seriously? Are you fucking kidding me? She thinks that the Joker is a sexual turn-on?!_ Wallace didn't claim to know all there was about the female psyche, but he couldn't fathom anything remotely sexually attractive about a psychopath who dressed as a clown. "Dude, that's just wrong. Fuckin' twisted is what that is."

Jones wasn't nearly as appalled at the couple's choice of role-playing as he was dumbstruck by the sickening coincidence. It was either the most incredible instance of timing, or a really, really bad omen. Of all the people they had to see on this night, they happened to see a couple where the man was dressed like their maniacal leader? Had they gone into the club just seconds earlier, they would have missed the couple entirely.

But they didn't. They saw the couple. They saw the man dressed as the Joker, who was going to show what he did to people who _lost things_.

_Like a cell phone, perhaps?_

Wallace turned back to Jones and tapped him on the shoulder. "C'mon man, let's get in there and get it over with."

Now it was Jones' turn to hesitate. He didn't believe in coincidences. He believed in signs. And if that wasn't a sign, he didn't know what was. "Wallace, I have a really bad feeling about this."

Wallace swallowed. "Me, too."

Jones shook his head. "No, man. A _really_ bad feeling about this."

Wallace nodded. "Well, at this point, what choice do we have?"

They entered the building, stepping around the broken door, into the blue darkness that pulsated with Guns 'N Roses music. Axl Rose's screeching beckoned them inward, welcoming them to the jungle.

________________________________

The Joker stood outside the door to The Room, looking down the darkened hallway toward Barker. He put his finger up to his lips to indicate that the smaller man should approach as quietly as possible. Once he came up to the door, the Joker whispered to him.

"Now, Barker." He laid his hand on Barker's shoulder. Barker felt electricity shoot through his body. He was touching him. _Mr. Joker_ was touching _him_! It was as if the hand of Zeus had come down from Mount Olympus. The Joker continued: "I need to you to wait out here for me," (smack) "very quietly. Don't come in until I tell you to." He licked his lips. "Can you be a good _marionette_ for me and obey?"

Barker straightened up, and nodded in unchecked enthusiasm. He lived for these moments of confidence, when Mr. Joker played the game with him that only the two of them were privy to. None of the other henchmen shared this type of confidence with Mr. Joker. What they had was special.

The Joker put his hand on top of Barker's head, over the mask, and rubbed his head like one would if mussing the fur of a dog. His approval was guttural. "Good-ah. Boy."

The Joker bent down to pick up the bag that Wallace had left outside The Room, and he quietly opened the door and stepped inside. Turning once more to Barker before shutting the door, he said, "Barker?"

Barker nodded to show his acknowledgement.

"Get down on the floor again. I uh, heh," he ran his tongue over the corner of his mouth, touching the edge of the scar on his left cheek. "I _really_ want you to see thissss."

The door closed. Barker knelt down and pressed his face to the floor, to view everything through the space under the door. His breathing was already becoming labored with excitement. He watched.

The lights were off inside, so there was only the moonlight to illuminate the Joker's movements. The Joker's feet stepped of of sight, over toward the corner of the room. Then they came back into view, stepping quietly yet purposefully from the corner toward Lois. She still lay unconscious on the floor on her side, facing the door as she had been when Barker had first seen them together.

Barker watched as Mr. Joker's feet stopped next to the woman down by her ankles. Then he placed one foot forward over her legs, turning his body and pointing his toes up toward her head. He placed a bag on one side of her in front of her knees. Another bag was set down on the other side of her behind her knees.

Then the Joker's knees came down to touch the floor on either side of her body without a sound. Directly in his line of vision, Barker could see male hands working at the waist of the woman's pants, unbuckling her belt. It was the very belt the clown had lashed her with earlier. Lois had pulled her belt back on when the Joker had stepped out to give instructions to Jones and Curtis, in a vain attempt to protect her modesty. Though it offered no barrier to his attacks, she clung to any vestige of familiarity that she could. Yet now, the clown had already unfastened her belt again, sliding it out of the pants' belt loops in a slow, fluid motion.

Jolts of tension shot through the Joker. The urge was back. It had returned, clawing and scraping at his mind like a starving wild animal ravenous for food.

_Want to feel. Want to feeeeeel her. Feel. Her. Fear._

The Joker gently rolled Lois over onto her back. He sat back on his own heels and picked up both of Lois' hands, holding them palms-up in his own. He closed his eyes, tilted his head back and drew in a deep breath through his nose. He held it.

_What thoughts are in your head right now, little Queen of Tarts?_

He exhaled through his mouth, opened his eyes and tilted his head to look down at her.

He threaded her belt into its own buckle, then he slid the noose around her right hand. He pulled at the slack until the belt was encircling her wrist loosely. He placed her hand at her side, and reached across the floor for the discarded belt he'd pulled from Mooney's body. He did the same thing with her left hand.

_Are you finding any solace in the blackness?_

He raised her right hand above her head and placed it on the floor.

_Enjoy it while it lasts. You can't escape me for long._

He placed her left hand above her head on the floor.

_Or are you still frightened?_

He cocked his head and ran his tongue over his bottom lip.

_Are you dreaming right now?_

He wanted to know the terror that she felt.

_Do you still fear me, even in your dreams?_

He wanted to experience what she felt when she saw him. Terror brought such clarity. A recalibration of priorities. He placed his hands over her wrists, pinning her arms to the floor above her head. He bent forward to rest his forehead against hers. He closed his eyes.

 _If I can't be out_ there _to sample Gotham's fear, then I want to taste yours. No one denies me tonight._

_No one._

He willed her thoughts into his own mind.

_The blackness won't hide you from me, Sweet Tart. I'm just a nightmare away. Share your nightmares with me, and I'll show you things you can't even imagine._

He sat back, reached into his bag he'd retrieved from the corner, and pulled out two galvanized nails, four inches in length with broad heads. He also pulled out a hammer stained with rust and blood, with a fragment of a human skull lodged in the head's claw.

He positioned the first nail above Lois' left hand. Then he brought the hammer down with force.

He struck the nail square on the head, driving it down with only one blow, until its head met the resistance from underneath.

________________________________

 

_. . . . . . ._

_ Author's Notes for "Omnipresence" _

_. . . . . . ._

_Several of the events that are unfolding in these chapters are happening in a very tight timeframe. It is my intention for some of these scenes to overlap. I didn't want to go the screenplay route and indicate in brackets which scenes are taking place simultaneously, because that can get cumbersome very quickly, but many of these instances are unfolding closely together. I bring this up because it may appear odd that in Chapter 20, I first write about Wallace and Jones talking in the alley; then in Chapter 21, I write of the the scene with the couple being thrown out of Flesh for Fantasy; then in this chapter, the couple appears outside after being thrown out while Wallace and Jones haven't even made it to the door of the club yet. Maroni was in the process of tossing out the couple while Wallace confessed to Jones in the alley about the photos of the weapons, even though I presented that confession scene in a chapter prior to the one in the club that was taking place simultaneously. The chapters would get too long if I presented all simultaneous events in the same section._

_It's quite possible that no one cares, or even noticed. Sometimes I prefer not to progress a story in a completely linear fashion. I hope that no one ends up too confused, and in the end, it all comes together to make sense._

_-4oC 2008.12.07_

 


	25. A Stir of Sediment

*** A STIR OF SEDIMENT ***

**Chapter 25**

**. . . . . . .**

_Look at me. Turn around and see me. I'm right here – please help me._

Lois stood on the rooftop of a familiar building, the wind whipping around her body in cold gusts. The full moon was high in the night sky and the stars were out. Before her stood an impressive figure. She stepped toward him, rubbing her arms for warmth.

His back was to her. Standing on the ledge of the building, he looked down upon the city that he protected. They had a name for his kind: hero. She could tell by the rounded outline of his massive shoulders that his arms were crossed at his chest. His cape blew back in her direction, in an undulating current of red.

His head was turned, and she could see his profile: the strong jaw, the wave in his thick black hair above his forehead, the look of concern etched into his features.

She caught his scent. It was warm and masculine and everything that was _good_ with the world. It embodied him.

He could save her, but he didn't know she was there. If only he would turn around to look over his shoulder.

"Please," she stretched out her arm toward him, almost touching the hem of his cape as it fluttered behind him. "Superman, I'm here. Please help me!"

In slow motion, he turned his head toward her, eyes cast downward. As he brought his chin over his shoulder, he raised his gaze to meet hers. She caught a glimpse – just briefly – of his crystal blue eyes, set deep with sadness.

Then his cape blew toward her face and she was momentarily blinded by a wave of the crimson cloth. When it billowed to the side again…

…he was gone.

Lois closed her eyes to will him to come back to her. When she opened them again, she found herself standing on the rooftop of an unfamiliar building, the wind whipping around her body in icy gusts. It was colder now. Above her in the night sky, the waning moon was low and the stars had disappeared. This time, there was a formidable figure before her. She stepped toward him, her movement stirring the pebbles on the roof.

Lois felt her urgency mount. _Look at me. Turn around and see me. I'm right here – please help me. Please!_

His back was to her. Standing on the ledge of the building, he looked over the city that he once had protected. They had a name for his kind: outcast. She could tell by the rounded outline of his sizable shoulders that his arms were crossed at his chest. His cape blew back toward her, in an undulating current of black.

His head was turned, and she could see his profile: the strong jaw, the black cowl with the formidable points of the bat-shaped ears, the look of concern etched into his features, visible even behind the mask.

She caught his scent. It was cold and masculine and everything that was _unsettled_ with the world. It embodied him.

He, too, could save her, but he didn't know she was there. If only he would turn around to look over his shoulder.

"Please," she stretched out her arm toward him, almost touching the hem of his cape as it fluttered behind him. "Batman, I'm here. Please help me!"

In slow motion, he turned his head toward her, eyes cast downward. As he brought his chin over his shoulder, he raised his gaze to meet hers. She caught a glimpse – just briefly – of his dark eyes, set deep with uncertainty.

Then his cape blew toward her face and she was momentarily blinded by a wave of onyx cloth. When it billowed to the side again…

…he was still there. But there was something different about him. Something more ominous.

Her pleading only came out in a whisper, which she feared the wind would carry away: "Please, help me!"

He cocked his head to the side and regarded her with curiosity. Lois thought that he hadn't heard her, as her voice seemed to fail. She forced herself to scream. " _Help me_!"

The Batman hopped off the ledge of the roof and stood square to her with his feet wide, and he lowered his arms to his sides. He answered her in a voice that wasn't his own. It was a voice belonging to someone else: "No."

Lois started to cry, shaking her head in disbelief. "Please help me! Please get me out of here!"

The Batman lowered his head forward and downward, then he advanced on her slowly. He repeated himself, but it was with someone else's voice: _"No."_

Lois backed up with trepidation, holding her hands entreaty before her, tears streaming down her face. "Pl— please help me!"

The Batman narrowed his eyes at her behind the mask, then licked his lips. _"Nooooooo."_ The wind rustled his cape violently, blowing it in a maelstrom around him, almost reaching her.

She could almost touch its purple hem.

Her voice was just a croaked whisper. "Someone please save me."

A voice garbled at her from off to the side. Lois turned to see a corpse lying prostrate on the rooftop, gurgling its words as its mouth filled with blood that ran down from the three gaping bullet holes in the forehead and left cheek. "Save her! Save the Queen! God save the Queen!"

"God save the Queen of Tartsssssss."

She turned back and saw _him_.

He advanced on her menacingly. He turned his back on the city that he was terrorizing. They had a name for his kind: monster. The wind blew his green-tinted blonde tangles in a flurry around his head, and the red of his lips appeared black in the moonlight. Behind him in the night sky, the waning moon started to wax. It grew from crescent to half, then gibbous to full, its white glow growing larger. A face appeared on the moon. Then, it wasn't a moon. It was a clown's mask, hovering and unattached. Watching.

Lois turned to run, but her feet were stuck in tar under the pebbles. He closed the gap in no time from behind her. Cold hands snaked around her throat, down her arms and around to her front. She caught the scent of him. It was decayed and it was rotten and it was everything that was _discarded_ in the world. It embodied him.

His breath was hot and putrid in her ear: "Did you really think that I was done with you yet?" His mouth was at her neck and his hands grasped her shoulders. He threw her backwards hard.

She landed on the floor of The Room. Her limbs felt like lead, and she couldn't move. Towering over her, the Joker peeled off his gloves, threw his coat to the side, and unfastened his tie. Lois turned her head to look under the door. She saw a face pressed to the floor, watching her. It was Superman's face.

"He just wants to _watch_." She looked up at the Joker, who had removed his vest and was unbuttoning his shirt. He regarded her with a lustful and angry intent. Fearful of what his expression held, she looked away from him back to the door. A different face was pressed to the floor, watching her from outside in the hall. It was the Batman's face.

"He just wants to _watch_." She looked up at the Joker again, who had removed his shirt and was now on his knees straddling her, unfastening the front of his pants. He was laughing and his eyes were wild.

Lois swallowed a scream and turned away to look back at the door. The Batman had disappeared, and now Barker was watching her through the gap between the door and doorframe.

"He just wants to _watch_." Lois turned toward the Joker as he pressed his weight on top of her. He was unfastening her belt and unzipping her pants. He licked his lips and bit the side of his mouth in anticipation.

She turned her head to the door once more. Barker was still there, but the clown mask's mouth opened and a red snake slithered out. Then another. And another. They slithered under the door and over to her head.

"They just want to _help_." Lois turned to the Joker whose face was inches from hers. "Not help _you_ , of course. Help meeeeeeeee." He slid his hands inside her underwear at her hips and yanked downward with force, leaving her exposed from her waist down to mid-thigh. A low rumble of laughter escaped from his chest.

Two of the red snakes encircled her wrists and pulled them up above her head. The third snake slid up to her ear and whispered to her. "People are dying tonight and it's your fault." The snake slid across her neck and down inside her shirt. It continued its hissed accusation: "All your fault. All your fault." The Joker locked his eyes on Lois' and drew back from her face slowly; torturously so. He lowered his head and placed his mouth down between her legs. He snaked his red tongue outward to touch her, watching her face all the while.

The snake inside her shirt slithered down between her breasts toward the Joker's mouth. Grinning with depravity, he opened his mouth up wide and the snake slithered in, sliding over the point where his tongue had just been on her body. The snake turned around inside his mouth, stuck its head out between his lips to look at her again and split in two. Each half became its own smaller snake. They inched outward and apart over the corners of his mouth, resting themselves on his cheeks. They stopped moving and became his scars.

The Joker never broke his gaze from hers. His tongue came back out and touched her between the legs, and he slowly dragged it upward along her body. Lois looked up to see two figures towering over them at her feet. Both Superman and the Batman stood with crossed arms, watching. Lois had no voice. She could only mouth the words, "Help me."

Ambivalently, the two men looked at each other, then looked down at her as the Joker ripped open her blouse. He drew his tongue up the middle of her body, leaving a glistening red liquid trail of blood on her torso. Superman uncrossed his arms and pulled a white rubber clown mask over his head. The Batman followed suit. They watched.

Lois turned her head toward the door. The face of the corpse was pressed against the floor, watching her. The flat of the Joker's tongue licked the side of her face, leaving her sticky and wet. She turned to look at him as he hissed, "Hello, Queen of Tartssss."

The Joker brought himself down heavily on top of her, thrusting his tongue deep into her mouth. Then it wasn't a tongue, but another snake, tickling the back of her throat as it hissed. At her stomach she could feel how hard he had grown from the foreplay, and she tried to turn her face from his so she wouldn't choke from the smothering kiss and the snake in her mouth. He raised his mouth from hers, and drew the snake out. Lois watched as the snake became a tongue again. He looked down on her face while his hands went to the middle of their bodies. Biting his lower lip, he put one hand on the side of her waist for purchase, and the other around his erection. Lois watched his hand as he guided himself to her body, poised to violate her.

"Would you like to rape me, Lois?"

She shook her head weakly.

"Well, then… how about if I rape you?"

Searing pain tore through her core as he thrust into her forcefully. It felt sharp, like a knife. She couldn't cry out in pain, even her own voice betraying her. He raised a hand to stroke the side of her face. "Don't look at it as rape." His grin was lascivious. "Look at it as getting _nailed_."

He thrust into her again and a loud bang seemed to explode up by her ears. He smiled at her, the scars pulling back his mouth to garish proportions. "That's right… you're getting _nailed_." Another deep thrust of his hips, and another loud bang rang through her head. The sound was so loud as to be blinding, fading his face to white, blending in with the white clown masks behind him that Superman and the Batman wore as they watched passively. The white shapes bled together and obscured her vision.

Soon, everything was white.

There was another loud bang up by her head.

Then Lois stirred and opened her eyes.

The Joker's face was suspended over hers, a broad smile playing on his lips, his tongue flicking outward. White light encircled him. "Well good _mor_ ning, sunshine-ah! Did you have a good nap?"

________________________________

Он умер вчера вечером . Я сожалею. (He died last night. I am sorry.)

Sergei Kruzynski shut off his cell phone, seething with rage. He started to pace in the backroom of the pawnshop, while the two other men in the room held their breath. They had seen their boss in this state before, and good things seldom came of it. Whatever the news was that had come through the line, it wasn't what the imposing Belarussian wanted to hear.

He stopped his pacing abruptly near a wall. With a broad swipe of his arm, Kruzynski knocked a stock shelf full of lamps to the floor, sending glass shattering in a myriad of shards at his men's feet. He grabbed a heavy ornate candlestick and threw it with all his might at an antique mirror on the other side of the store. There came a deafening crash, and the sound of more broken glass.

The scene was a metaphor for the self-restraint Kruzynski had finally lost in this street war against the Mob.

Fists balled at his sides, he let out a roar. The chords in his neck strained against leathery skin. With a heaving chest, he looked at his henchmen from underneath knotted black eyebrows. "Nikolai is dead."

The older man succinctly nodded his condolences to Kruzynski, and cast his eyes downward in deference. The younger henchman, still a bit too green to know when to keep his mouth shut, tried to offer a sympathetic apology and sincere condolences for Kruzynski's youngest brother. His judgment ran short where his words ran long.

Before the extemporaneous outpouring of empathy concluded, Kruzynski had backhanded the younger man across the face, sending him sprawling into a jewelry counter, where he cracked his forehead against the edge of the display case. Blood ran freely into his eyes. Stifling a yelp of pain, he wiped at it with the back of his sleeve, and turned around to stand at attention once again in front of his boss.

Kruzynski's youngest brother had been killed outside of Minsk, by an ambush of government soldiers. Nikolai had been a member of the insurgents who had risen up in Belarus against the state's corrupt political system. The weapons that Kruzynski had tried to purchase clandestinely from the Mob would have been invaluable to the rebel group.

Of course, the guns and ammunition never made it to Minsk. Many men had died needlessly because they didn't have the necessary artillery to fight the government's soldiers with equal force.

This was the second brother that Kruzynski had lost because of this weapons deal going south.

Yugevny died the very night the deal fell apart with Maroni and his crew. He had been Sergei's second in command, and the Mob had brought in a fucking sniper to take him down.

Kruzynski took inventory of his standing: two dead brothers, no weapons for his countrymen back in the motherland, loyal employees dead and buried because of the ongoing feud; and yet a considerable sum of money from their pockets lined the wallets of Vinnie Maroni and his men.

He had tried to avoid making it personal against Maroni for as long as he could. It was common knowledge that the Mob greatly outnumbered the Belarussians in Gotham, and their resources were certainly more extensive. Arranging a personal hit on Maroni or on his family, though desired by every rival street gang, was considered suicide. Still, it was smart to have a strategy, if the time ever came to cross that line.

Kruzynski _was_ a smart man. As the veins throbbed in his temples, he decided that the time _had_ come to cross that line.

He had little left to lose. Family members of his had died because of the Mob's double-cross. It seemed due justice that Maroni be paid back in kind. Since the night of the failed deal, Kruzynski had mapped out a plan for retribution. He knew exactly whom and where to strike, to hit Maroni hard. The variables in the equation were the 'when' and the 'how'.

Looking over at the small TV near the store's register, the 'when' and the 'how' finally fell into place.

One of Gotham's local news channels had posted a list on the television screen of the confirmed locales around Gotham where explosions had been reported, attributed to the Joker's threats against the city. An epiphany came to the Belarussian: clearly the Gotham Police Department was focusing all their resources on locating the clown and minimizing casualties. Another explosion in Gotham, given the events that were unfolding, would just be attributed to this wave of terror and probably wouldn't raise undue suspicion right away.

Blood coursed through his veins faster, his excitement growing as he saw how the plan would come together: the Joker had set the stage for a hit on Maroni's family that wouldn't raise suspicion immediately, assuming explosives were used. By the time the police investigated and learned that it was the work of the Belarussians, Kruzynski could have not only his revenge, but perhaps the weapons from the original arrangement as well.

Moreover, if things went even better than expected, perhaps he could get their pilfered funds back. Time to give Maroni a taste of his own medicine.

Kruzynski stepped forward and grabbed both his henchmen roughly by their collars, and smiled at them venomously. "How would you like to help me pay that mother fucking Italian back for Nikolai and Yugevny?"

The henchmen didn't answer. It was a rhetorical question, after all. There could be no other answer but 'yes'.

________________________________

Lois stared at the Joker, completely disoriented. She became conscious of her own body lying on the floor, and a realization hit her that she had been awakened from a dream.

More to the point, a horrific nightmare. One she had been glad to break free of. _Thank God. Oh, thank God that was only a dream!_

"I had to, ah" (smack) "turn the lights on to see what I was doing. See, it's difficult to find the holes of a belt in the dark. Hold on, would ya, Sweet Tart?" He leaned over her, and a loud bang rang through the room again.

He sat back on his heels straddling her, holding a hammer up for her to see. He bent down to her face, and lowered his voice conspiratorially. "Bet you didn't think you were going to get _nailed_ tonight." He winked salaciously at her. "But maybe you did. You were supposed to meet with Bruce Wayne, weren't you? Word around Gotham is that the boy…" the Joker looked at her with a smirk. "…really gets _around_."

Rocking back on his heels, he stood up. Lois tried to roll to her side, but she felt her arms restrained above her head. She craned her neck awkwardly to try to see what was restricting her movement. Both wrists had belts looped tightly around them, and he had nailed both belts to the floor.

She turned her face up to his. "What's this for?"

He brought a video camera up to his shoulder. "We've got more footage to shoot, and I needed to…" he licked his lips. "… set the stage. See, this video is going to be a bit more personal."

He leaned over her to elucidate: "This video is going to be for the Batman."

________________________________

. . . . . . .

Author's Notes for "A Stir of Sediment"

. . . . . . .

_The title for this chapter refers to all the images that have stirred in Lois' mind while she's out cold, planted by the Joker. Fractured remnants of her encounter with him have been unsettled to form this horrific nightmare. Dreams have a bizarre way of repeating inside themselves, hence the similar pattern of events when she saw first Superman then the Batman. The mind also seems to have a way of incorporating actual events into the dream's images. As the Joker was unfastening her belt and looping it around her wrist, these physical sensations appeared in her dream, though her mind attributed different contextual interpretations to them. When the Joker was nailing the belt to the floor, this sound ended up in her dream. I picture him actually saying out loud that he was "nailing her", so this crude expression ended up in her dream as well. As awful as the events were in her nightmare, I wanted to incorporate the elements of nightmares that we've all probably had: trying to scream without a voice, trying to run when you're stuck, pleading for help when none comes._

_So for anyone who may be concerned with how I've been portraying the Joker, I just wanted to make it clear that the rape came only in the dream. Given all the sexual advances the Joker put on Lois before she blacked out, a fear of rape is_ exactly _what he wants her to be saddled with. Fear is the root of chaos, and that's what he's all about._

_-4oC 2008.12.08_


	26. Intersections

*** INTERSECTIONS ***

**Chapter 26**

**. . . . . . .**

The Batman's gaze did not waver.

He glared at Maroni and remained completely still, his resolute stance all the more imposing when contrasted with the movement that surrounded him: the blue lights gyrating from the ceiling in synch with the music, the occasional puff of star-shaped silver glitter blown through the air vents from above, and the scrambling of the patrons of Flesh For Fantasy.

Some of the regular customers and employees had noticed that the couple they referred to as 'the Joker couple' had made another appearance earlier. Though most had grown accustomed to their occasional visits, it was hard not to take notice and even offense at a man dressed up as the most frightening criminal in Gotham, particularly when it was common knowledge that the real Joker had been at large for six months. When Maroni's men had tossed the couple out, a few patrons inwardly gloated. They were glad that measures had finally been taken to rid the establishment of two lowlifes who would so willingly engage in such flagrant debauchery. It allowed the rest of them to return their attentions to the hot candle wax, ball gags, Cat o'nine tails and nipple clamps administered so ferociously and without mercy.

So when a towering figure appeared dressed up as the Batman, few raised their eyebrows. Assuming it was another customer engaging in role-play, or perhaps a dominant employee in costume for the night, the patrons had only regarded him with a detached amusement and curiosity.

That was before he laid out Mistress Femke with a crack to her jaw.

Everyone, employee and patron alike, knew of Mistress Femke. A former bodybuilder, she could very likely beat the shit out of nearly everyone in the establishment, with the possible exclusion of a behemoth-sized bouncer named Julian. When the patrons saw Femke out cold, and Maroni with his two bodyguards clearly on edge at the sight of the imposing caped figure before them, the calculations fell into place fairly quickly.

 _That isn't a man_ dressed up _as the Batman. That_ is _the Batman._

Drawing as little attention to themselves as possible, the patrons of Flesh For Fantasy made for the exits. Fast.

The employees backed up to the perimeter of the room, eyes wide with awe and curiosity, waiting to see how the scene would unfold.

Maroni swallowed his fear. He felt a mixture of fright, anger and vengeance well up inside him. For once he was relieved that the music was as distracting as he found it to be; it necessitated communication in a louder voice that wouldn't betray the faltering from fear that a softer pitch would reveal.

Maroni pointed toward the Batman as he spoke. "You got a lotta fuckin' nerve showin' up here." A year earlier, the Batman had dropped his half-brother Salvatore Maroni off a balcony to the street below, shattering his leg. That was shortly before he killed him and his driver in a limousine crash. Though the death of his half-brother facilitated Vinnie's ascent to the top of the crime family, it was a technicality that didn't change the fact that the Batman was believed to have caused Salvatore's death. The Mob tended to hold a grudge when it came to the murder of one of their own, particularly as it was the _capofamiglia_ himself who had been killed.

The Batman said nothing, unsettling the men before him with his silence. His arms remained crossed and his focus was trained on Maroni, though his peripheral awareness of the two bodyguards remained heightened, waiting for any sudden movement they might make. For now, the two men stood on alert, ready for their boss to give them the green light to attack the Batman.

They really hoped he wouldn't.

Though every man in Gotham harbored the secret machismo fantasy that _he_ could be the one to take down the Batman one-on-one in a fight, the cold reality was that no man who wanted to avoid getting his ass kicked – painfully – would ever attempt so bold and foolish a maneuver.

The Batman finally replied to Maroni. "Seems your business is doing well. Life looks pretty good from the top, doesn't it?"

Clenching his jaw, Vinnie processed the words. Were they an observation? An accusation? Which of his businesses was the Batman referring to – the illegal trade of contraband weapons? The human trafficking of underage boys and girls from Thailand for the sex trade? His legitimate business ventures that kept the IRS at bay, like Rogue and Flesh For Fantasy? "From the top"… was he insinuating that he had gotten too comfortable too quickly in assuming Sal's role? The Batman had a way of choosing his words carefully enough to allow his audience just enough rope with which to hang themselves, if they didn't watch their words carefully when forming a reply.

Maroni decided to counter-attack, a smirk on his face: "I could put a call in to the Gotham PD right now, and tell them that you're here. Something tells me they'd be interested to get their hands on a vigilante who's wanted for five killings." His smile faded. "Considering one of them was my brother—"

" _Half_ -brother," the Batman corrected. "Don't play the grief-stricken relative card with me, Maroni. You profited considerably from Salvatore's death." His eyes were cold. Unforgiving.

Vinnie bristled at the retort. "Are you sayin' that I wanted him dead?"

"I'm saying that you've become a very successful man in the last year, and it's a success you wouldn't have gotten as a mere _consigliere_."

Maroni's face turned purple with rage. "Fuck you, you bat-faced piece of shit!" He turned his face to the side, keeping his eyes on the Batman. "Donny, give the GPD a call, would ya? Let 'em know that we got a fugitive they might be interested in pickin' up."

Donny nodded at his boss, eyed the Batman and reached for his cell phone. He froze when the Batman spoke.

"Phone them if you want. I'm not going to be high on their list of priorities tonight. They already have their hands full." The Batman furrowed his brow, thinking about the myriad ways the Joker could be destroying the city, and the futility that Gordon and his officers likely faced in trying to counter any of the maniac's plans.

Donny hesitated in making the call, looking back and forth between his boss and the caped figure, unsure of whose authority trumped the other's.

Maroni nodded. "Oh yeah, that's right." His eyes expressed cruel mirth. For once he was glad that the clown had the unchecked bloodlust that he did. "The Joker has been dazzling the city of Gotham tonight with quite a show, hasn't he? I just saw it on the news." He shook his head and tsk'd in mock sympathy. "Poor Gordon and his men. Looks like they've got their hands full, all right." _And it's about fucking time. Maybe this will finally get them off our asses with the investigation of the street feud between us, the Belarussians and the Chinese._ "I just hope that the commish doesn't crack from all the stress. Poor, poor Jimmy Gordon." His shoulders bounced as he laughed.

The Batman didn't take kindly to the tone of Maroni's voice, nor the implication that his friend Gordon was anything less than fully competent. Before replying he leveled his voice. "Gordon will do everything he can to stop the Joker, and keep the citizens of Gotham safe."

"Yeah, you think so?" Vinnie reached up to scratch the side of his face. "I dunno, it looks like a pretty big undertaking to me. Doesn't look like they're doin' Jack shit right now. Seems they really coulda used _your_ help with this Joker-mess… but you're a fugitive now, aren't ya? So they're not going to be turning to you for anything."

The Batman narrowed his eyes at Maroni. He wouldn't let the thug's taunts and insinuations draw him into a rash move.

Maroni continued, "On the one hand, I'd like to extend my personal thanks to you for taking Dent out of the equation. He was making things a little sticky for some of us. On the other hand…" Maroni shook his head and bit the inside of his cheek. "...you murdered Sal."

Maroni looked down at his shoes, shoving his hands in his pockets. Then he turned his eyes upward to look at the Batman. "See, you an' me got ourselves a little problem 'cause of that."

His eyes flashed with murderous intent.

________________________________

The waitress who had gone to fetch Maroni a fresh martini, to replace the one that he had dropped, had been in the kitchen for over fifteen minutes. Though she had asked the cook to pull together an appetizer to appease Maroni, her true motive for the extended stay was storytelling.

She had managed to miss the entire exchange Maroni had had with Mistress Femke. She also had no idea the Batman had arrived, nor was she aware of the patrons streaming out the front door, some of them barely clad, due to the impromptu appearance of said visitor.

Normally she would have returned with a drink for Maroni within minutes, but she couldn't resist filling in the kitchen staff on Maroni's reaction to 'the Joker couple'. Informing them that Maroni's replacement drink was necessitated by his dropping the martini glass in surprise and outrage at finally seeing the Joker couple was a delightful nugget of gossip for her to share. It was a welcomed change of topic from the usual discussions of deviant sex requests or intercourse mishaps made by the club's patrons. After a while it got boring. You could only talk about the customers' anal plugs being shoved in too far or flavored body wax getting stuck in awkward places so often before it became dull.

After spilling what she had seen to the busboy, she returned to the second floor with a tray carrying Maroni's glass, and a fresh plate of cocktail wieners that he particularly liked. The symbolism was not lost on anyone in the kitchen whenever they prepared the dish. "Mr. Maroni, I've got your—"

She stopped in her tracks. Mistress Femke's unmoving body lay on the floor, sprawled out and blocking her path to her boss. All the employees were gathered on the far side of the room against the wall, eyes wide. Mr. Maroni, Donny and Chaz all stood with their backs to her, but both bodyguards turned their heads when they heard her voice. Mr. Maroni kept his back to her, eyes forward. A hulking figure – the Batman – stood facing in her direction, staring down Maroni.

"Um… Mr. Maroni? Do you want your drink now, or is this a bad time?"

________________________________

The digits on the dashboard's clock were starting to get a little fuzzy. Curtis thought it read 11:35, but it very well could have read H:BS. He wasn't sure, but he was going to assume it was the former.

The street signs were also a bit blurred, which could have been attributed to either his speed or perhaps delayed ocular reflexes from the effects of the Tennessee whiskey. Most likely it was a result of both. The downtown area of Gotham seemed unusually empty, which he knew was a result of the fun he and his cohorts had been having around the city. He was glad for it – it made his drive back to their lair to surprise the Joker much faster.

The screeching of tires sounded off to his right, as he blatantly ran a red light and caused a Lexus to brake hard to avoid hitting him broadside. Half a block down the road, his mind caught up to the incident and he stuck his left hand out the driver's side window, flipping off the driver. "Fug you, youmuthrfuggin dummass pieceo'dogshid!" Hearing his own words slur, he reasoned that it was probably best to lay off the Jack Daniels for a bit. He wanted to be able to tell the clown off before bumping him off, and he wanted to make sure that he could enunciate well. Maybe he'd take one of those cameras the Joker was so fond of using, and tape himself slaying the clown. Then he'd get Barker to upload it to the servers of TV stations like he'd done earlier, and everyone in Gotham would see who was in charge then.

Judging from the vague familiarity of the buildings, Curtis could see that it wasn't much further now. The seedier stores were whizzing by his window. Sex video shops, convenience stores and pawnshops lined the sidewalk. As he passed a foreign-named pawnshop with metal gates locked in front of the store window, a dark blue car darted quickly out of the neighboring alley, nearly cut him off. Curtis had to pull the wheel sharply to avoid a collision. He leaned out the window to yell back at the Mercury Grand Marquis that pulled into the lane right behind his car after nearly clipping him. "Hey, fugface! Why doncha watch where yer drivin'!"

The driver of the Marquis tightened his grip on the wheel until his knuckles blanched. He looked in the rearview mirror for permission from Sergei Kruzynski to run the Lincoln Town Car off the road. Kruzynski shook his head firmly. They had other matters to attend to.

Curtis took his foot off the accelerator to slow the speed of his vehicle, purposely trying to antagonize the driver behind him. He eyed the car in his rearview mirror. "Whaddaya thinka thad, dighead?" He wiped at his mouth with the back of his hand. "Huh? Think ya can jus' almos' hit me an' gedda way with id?"

Kruzynski's driver hit the brakes in anticipation of the Town Car's braking. When the Lincoln's brake lights did come on, he yanked the steering wheel and maneuvered around the drunk driver into the lane of oncoming traffic. Fortunately there was no one approaching, as the streets were close to being deserted. Sergei barked his orders from the backseat. "We don't have time to play with this asshole. Drive!"

For a brief moment, the cars were side by side. The Belarussians eyed Curtis, and he looked back at them from under hooded eyes. The Marquis shot ahead, Kruzynski viewing Curtis with unalloyed hostility as they sped by.

On a night dominated by the Joker, anything in the realm of possibility suddenly became quite possible: even that seemingly chance encounter on the street. As the paths of the men intersected figuratively and almost physically, fate was nudging the men toward each other, in both a revelation of treachery past as well as a harbinger of violence that was yet to come.

Of course, the irony was that neither man was aware that his connection to the other had been forged long before the near-collision of their cars.

Kruzynski had no idea that the drunkard driving the Lincoln had helped to intercept the weapons intended to help his brother and countrymen outside Minsk, and thereby played a contributory role in the deaths of both of his brothers.

And Curtis, even had he been sober and recognized Sergei Kruzynski…

…could never have known that as a result of those weapons being stolen, the man in the backseat of the Marquis was about to commit a retaliatory act that would result in the Joker having a $10 million bounty put on his head that very night by Vinnie Maroni.

________________________________

Jones and Wallace had ducked into a supply closet on the first floor outside the kitchen of Flesh For Fantasy, when they saw a waitress approaching rapidly. The space was small and filled with cleaning supplies, and it was difficult to keep their balance without knocking into something. They could hear from the pitch of her voice that she was relaying something with a note of excitement to others who were working in the kitchen. Jones hoped that she would say what she had to and get the hell out of there, before he was overcome by the fumes from a jug of ammonia that didn't have the cap tightly secured. Several minutes passed. It felt like hours.

Wallace kept his voice low. "When it's safe to move, we're going to hang a left outside this door, then another left. Earlier I caught sight of a second staircase that the employees probably use to move between the kitchen and the other floors."

"Won't that put us at greater risk of running into someone who knows we're not supposed to be here?" Jones could feel the familiar knots forming in his stomach.

Wallace felt his exasperation build at Jones' reluctance. "Well, it's either that or we waltz right up the main staircase, in full view of everyone, including the cameras. Which one would you prefer-"

He silenced himself when he heard the click of the waitress' heels approach, and both men saw a shadow pass by the door. Then, the sound of shoes walking up a hard-surfaced staircase. _Good_ , thought Wallace, glad to know that the staircase gave up noise so easily. _If anyone else hits the staircase ahead of us or behind us, we should be able to hear them coming._ Not that there would be anywhere to duck to, but at least they'd have a chance to turn their faces away from anyone who might recognize Wallace from earlier.

Wallace reached for the handle and whispered. "Okay, man. To the left." He slowly opened the door, looked out through its cracked opening, and slinked outside. Jones followed suit. Peering around the corner, Wallace saw an unobstructed view to the staircase. "Let's move."

Wallace cringed at the sound of his boot on the first step. He took the next one slowly on his toes. Mimicking his cohort, Jones, too, tested each stair with as delicate a balance as he could. Step by step, they ascended slowly. Wallace felt relief at their having reached the second floor without an awkward meeting of an employee on the staircase. _Second floor reached without incident, CHECK._

The next part would be trickier. Wallace turned to Jones. "The dressing rooms are down this hallway, but we've got to walk by _that_." He pointed to the entryway to a room off the hallway to the left side that was the width of three doors, but completely unobstructed by any type of covering. If they moved at a pace that seemed casual, they'd be in view for about three seconds, should anyone inside be looking their way. If they darted, perhaps they'd make it across the opening in two seconds or fewer, but any rash movement could be spotted and raise red flags.

Wallace looked back at Jones, whose face mirrored the tension in his own. He nodded to him, and said, "Casually. Heads down, turned away to the right."

With Jones close on his heels, Wallace walked down the hallway, and approached the wide opening to the cavernous blue-tinted room, from which Marilyn Manson's guttural shouts emanated. Wallace was chanting a prayer to himself in frantic cadence with the beat of the song. "No one sees us, no one sees us, no one sees—"

________________________________

The waitress waited for Vinnie to answer, hoping that he did want his drink so she could set it down and get out of the room. The air was thick with tension, and it felt like someone's temper was about to explode. Probably Vinnie's.

Maroni smiled at the dingbat's timing, as he let sarcasm coat his words. "Yeah, doll. Now's not the best time." He rolled his head to work the tension out of his neck. "Come back in about ten minutes, after we've subdued this cocksucker." He pointed toward the Batman and bellowed at his men, _"Get him!"_

The waitress spun and ran, Donny and Chaz lunged at the Batman, and Vinnie stepped back out of the area of the impending fracas.

Right as they passed by the gaping entryway, Wallace's shoulder was knocked back and Jones was nearly toppled by the waitress as she rushed from the room. She never stopped to look at them. The relief both men felt at her not looking at their faces lasted perhaps fractions of a second, before the dawning realization came that the force of the three-way impact had spun both men to face the open room squarely, in full view of everyone inside.

As they quickly scanned the room, momentarily frozen in disbelief at the unbelievably rotten timing of being run into, Wallace saw with horror that nearly all eyes in the room were turned toward their direction. The thought flew to Wallace's mind like lightning. _We're fucked. We're totally busted and we're dead._

For once, Jones didn't have the more pessimistic outlook of the two.

While Wallace scanned the faces of the patrons, Jones' own view had been knocked down lower. He saw a woman lying motionless on the floor. About twenty feet beyond her, two men were lunging toward an ominous black figure. The silhouette was dark, wore a cape and had a cowl with ears. Bat-shaped ears.

Both Wallace and Jones realized who it was simultaneously.

Wallace was totally dumfounded. _Jesus fuckin' Christ! Are you_ kidding _me? The God damned_ Batman _is standing right there?_ Grimacing, he couldn't believe their luck, as he looked at the one man who could possibly mean worse news for them than the Joker.

Jones, too, was dumfounded, but for a different reason. _Oh, thank Christ! Tell me I'm not seeing things, and that the Batman really_ is _right there in that room!_ Grinning, he couldn't believe their luck, as he looked at the one man who could possibly save them from the Joker.

Assuming, of course, that the Batman could not only fend off the two men who jumped him in unison, but also deflect the bullets that surely would be shot in his direction from the semiautomatic that Vinnie Maroni was pulling out from behind an obscured cabinet.

________________________________

From the Joker's tone, Lois deduced that this next video that he wanted to shoot was going to be worse for her than the prior two had been.

Despite her weakness, she struggled against the belts that held her wrists above her head to the floor. She started to push her body upward on the floor, to get more leverage to work her way out of the restraints, but the Joker rested the ball of his foot on her shoulder, holding her in place. "Ah ah _ah._ I'm the director of this video and I didn't say you could move yet."

A growling noise came from the Joker's direction. He grinned at Lois, then looked down with exaggerated surprise at his own midsection. His stomach growled again. "Well, it seems that I've forgotten to grab dinner. I can't, ah," (smack) "shoot the next segment without a little nourishment-ah. It's going to require a _bit_ of energy."

He set the camera down and pulled out Lois' watch again. He surveyed the face showing the lunar phases. "Barker."

Lois recoiled at the sound of the name and whipped her head in the direction of the door as it opened slowly. That _thing_ was standing there again, at the Joker's beck and call. She hated him almost as much as she hated the Joker.

"Barker, I'm hungry. I'm guessing that Mizzzz Lane, here, could probably use a snack, too. Run out and get us some pizza." The Joker leaned down to suspend his face over Lois'. "Do you like anchovies?"

Lois wrinkled her nose. "No."

"Good." He stood up and looked at Barker. "Get two large pizzas, one with anchovies, and the other with extra anchovies. The usual place, they should be open until midnight. Oh, and if they try to close before you order, just tell them you work for me and I'll blow their place sky high if I don't get my food. I'm really in the mood for fishies on my pizza." The Joker looked down at Lois. "I get a little cranky when I get hungry." He shrugged his shoulders.

Barker nodded, and started to back out of the room. "Wait!" The Joker had one more request. "While you're out, pick up some drinks. The, uh… heh, _good_ kind." He winked at Barker, and Lois suspected that whatever implications the shared confidence held, it wouldn't be beneficial for her. Barker withdrew, and ran downstairs to the hole in the kitchen wall where Mr. Joker had hidden cash for food runs to the pizza dive a few miles away. Barker didn't really care for the pizza, and he cared even less for having to leave his mask behind. The pizza never really agreed with him, but if it was what Mr. Joker wanted, then it was what he had to get. He grabbed a set of keys, and took a nondescript older model black Civic.

The Joker narrowed his eyes as he looked Lois squarely in the face. "Jeeeeeez… you don't _look_ so good, Queen of Tartsssss." He shook his head to underscore his point. Her face was smudged all over with traces of his face paint, her forehead was shiny with sweat and tears stained her cheeks. The state of her hair was nothing to write home about, either. "I can't have you looking like that for the video. It'll screw everything up- _ah_."

He sat himself down next to Lois, and pulled out a fresh white cloth from one of the duffle bags, and a bottle of water. He wet the cloth and started swiping with harsh strokes against her face, to remove all traces of make up. The sensation brought her to her senses, as he was being none too gentle about it. As she tried to twist her face away from him, he clucked his tongue at her. "You gotta hold still if I'm gonna clean you up properly."

Lois exhaled her annoyance and submitted to the brusque strokes, certain the skin on her face was turning bright red from the unforgiving friction of the cloth. As she tried to draw back from the Joker's attention, an uncomfortable realization hit her.

Actually, it was damned awkward.

"I, uh," she began, before turning her head away from him.

"You 'uh', what?" he mocked, looking down at her.

She closed her eyes so she wouldn't have to see his face. "I have to go to the bathroom."

There was a pause. "Yeah, I bet that you do."

Lois feared even telling him that, wondering if he'd withhold bathroom privileges as some sort of sick torture. She was shocked when she felt his hands loosen the belts around her wrists. He looked down at her. "Well, you can get up."

She rubbed at her wrists, staring up at him in confusion, wondering what twisted condition he would levy on the break. She tried to sit up, but her head swam. She felt his hand behind her neck to steady her, then a hand around her upper arm. "Up you go!" He pulled her to her feet with a spirited jerk. It was the first time in hours that she had been upright, and the shift in position dizzied her quickly. She faltered a few steps before finding her footing. Her left ankle was tender from when it twisted awkwardly as the Joker had tackled her in the second video. She tried to hide her limp. "C'mon, this way." He led her over to the far corner of the room and opened a door to a bathroom that one could almost call clean. The window was boarded up inside.

"You get five minutes."

Lois was almost stunned into silence. "Uh, thanks." She still eyed him warily. "I'm closing the door behind me," she said, hoping she wasn't pressing her luck.

"Well, _yeah,"_ the Joker replied. "I may be a barbarian, but I'm not a sicko. I have no interest in hearing or watching you pee, so just go do what you have to and get back out here."

 _Well… okay, then._ Lois nodded, wondering why molestations in front of an audience was kosher with him, but he drew a line with bathroom peeping. She decided that she didn't really care, just glad to have a modicum of privacy and dignity offered to her. She turned on the faucet, letting the water run so he couldn't hear everything.

She sat down and surveyed her stomach as she emptied her bladder. The cut was starting to throb, and the surrounding skin was getting red. _I hope this doesn't get infected._ She paused at the thought. _Assuming, of course, that I survive this hell._ She felt dizzy again, as the prospect of her probable death at the Joker's hands came to her mind. After she finished, she washed her hands and noticed the stains around the base of the bathtub. Old, dried blood, and lots of it. She didn't want to know. She reached to open the door but couldn't bring herself to open it. She couldn't bear the thought of going back out there. She wanted to stay inside until someone came to get her.

As if reading her thoughts, the door swung open and the Joker stood there, head cocked at an angle. "What are you waiting for? The toilet flushed and you didn't come out." He crossed his arms and raised his eyebrows. "Were you primping in front of the mirror" (smack) "so you'd look your best for me?"

Lois shook her head and stepped outside. He put his arm around her shoulders, as one would a sports buddy, as he walked her back over to the front of The Room. In his other hand, he held her watch.

"I gotta tell you, I _reeeeeally_ like this watch." He held it up to her face so she could see it. "See that?"

All Lois could see was that it was 11:47, and God only knew how much time she had left before he killed her. "Look at the phase of the moon," he directed.

She squinted her eyes and searched for a moon, but it had dipped below the horizon at the face's base. "I don't see one."

"Ahhhhhh," he turned her to face him. He looked at her from the corner of his eyes and pulled both sides of his mouth back in a grin. "Ex _act_ ly! Your watch is wrong, but I don't think that it's a coincidence." He licked his lips and nodded at her. "I think it's a _sign_."

She shrugged her shoulders. "I don't understand what you mean."

He pointed toward the window with the broken shade. "See, the moon is visible tonight, but on your watch, it's not. Do you know what happens when the moon is invisible?"

She shook her head, not knowing where on earth this random conversation was going.

"When the moon can't be seen, it's known as a 'new moon'."

"Oh, I know that already." She hoped that didn't sound challenging.

Not taken aback, he nodded at her, continuing his line of thought. "Good. That's when you start a fresh new phase, a new beginning in your life." He stepped in closer and put both of his hands on her shoulders to make sure he had her attention. His voice grew serious, which frightened her. It wasn't fraught with manic tension in a high pitch, nor was it demonically low, it was just… _normal._ But very serious.

"It's a time when you shed the con _ven_ tions that don't _suit_ you anymore." (smack) "A time when you release beliefs that don't serve you. It's when you…" his wicked grin returned, "…allow yourself to be re _created_ into something better. _Something grander_ than what you were before."

He continued. "The sun is the source of all life, right? Well, when the moon is full in the sky, it's because the earth is between the moon and the sun. We, here on earth, are closer to the life-giving sun than the moon is, and we can see the side of the moon that the sun illuminates." He closed his eyes.

"But when the moon is _new,_ " he opened his eyes again and smiled, "it lies _between_ earth and the life. Giving. Sun. We can't see the side of the moon that the sun illuminates." He stuck his tongue out and touched the corner of his mouth with it. "What we are left with is darkness. Darkness begets fear, and fear begets chaos. And chaos..." he swallowed. "... leads to beautiful, stark nothingness. We're, ah, left to create something _new_ out of the chaos."

The metaphor was not lost on her, yet he articulated it anyway: "Queen of Tartssss, think of _me_ as your moon, your, heh, lunar _god_ , who stands between you and the light you so _des_ perately seek. It's only led you astray, and you'll see that soon. I'm going to help you _recreate_ yourself- _ah_." He nodded at her slowly. "I'm giving you a chance for a new beginning. You'll see. It will be beautiful." He lowered his voice to a whisper. "And you'll be _gratefullll_." He held up her watch and dangled it in front of her face. "It may not be others' _time,_ but it clearly is _your_ time, Mizzzz Lane."

Lois stared at him, mute. The Joker's display of intelligence and his grasp on seemingly esoteric topics terrified her. It belied the insanity she believed he harbored. He spoke so rationally, with such clarity. She didn't want to believe it was the same man.

For if he really _were_ sane, and all of his contrivances were planned with such exacting calculations… then she was trapped with a man who was unquestionably the coldest and most ruthless killer she could imagine. A killer who wanted to create her into something new.

Most likely, with his knives.

________________________________

. . . . . . .

Author's Notes for "Intersections"

. . . . . . .

_I envision the Joker as having all sorts of random facts and trivia bits swirling about in his head like a maelstrom. What appears chaotic to others falls into place in his own mind, and I believe that he has the intelligence to articulate his thoughts with great poise, when it serves him to do so. Other times, he will only call on selected bits of information, to confuse those around him and keep them guessing as to his sanity._

_-4oC 2008.12.14_


	27. Blunt and Sharp

*** BLUNT AND SHARP ***

**Chapter 27**

**. . . . . . .**

A nasty brawl is a showstopper in any scenario, be it on the ice at a hockey game, out in the parking lot at a high school, or on the unforgiving streets of the Narrows. People just have to _look._

It was no different when the locale was a high-end fetish club.

Despite keeping themselves in harm's way, the employees at Flesh For Fantasy didn't want to leave the room: two of Maroni's men had jumped the Batman, and for all intents and purposes, they had the equivalent of ringside seats. This could get interesting. The dominants in the room actually edged themselves closer to the fight, aroused by the violence and feeding off the ferocious energy.

Even Jones and Wallace found themselves rooted where they stood. There was something ominous about the Batman, something that wouldn't let them look away. Awestruck by the sheer size of the man, they stalled in their quest for Wallace's missing cell phone and watched the ensuing fight from the open entryway.

Vinnie Maroni had made more than his share of enemies in Gotham; being the pragmatic that he was, he never stepped out in public without his alert mobile GPS tracking watch. Certainly, a Bvlgari Diagono Classic or a Rolex on his left wrist was what he flashed to the world, but strapped higher up on his arm was the device that sent out a covert alarm to his crew whenever he needed physical back up, and quickly.

He knew it would take more than just two men to take down the Batman.

So when Donny and Chaz ran at the caped figure, Vinnie hit this silent alert. Three men at the bar on the main level of Flesh For Fantasy toppled their stools as the GPS receptors they wore sounded. Maroni's exact position in the club was provided, and they bounded for the staircase to the second floor. They took the stairs two at a time, one of the men with his gun drawn.

Donny threw the first punch, a left cross to the intruder's face. The Batman quickly and deftly leaned out of the way of the blow, and grabbed the man's left arm to use the momentum against him. He brought up his knee and smashed the thug's face into the armor covering his right quadricep. Despite the sound of the music overhead, the crack of Donny's nose breaking was audible. He dropped to his knees, a fountain of blood streaming into his mouth.

Chaz positioned himself a few feet from the towering figure, who now squared himself to the second bodyguard. Arms up in a blocking position, Chaz threw a roundhouse with his right leg to the left side of the Batman's body. His shin met the armor covering the Batman's left forearm, as he swung his arm in a counter swipe to block the kick. Chaz yelped in pain, but before his leg dropped, the Batman grabbed and held the man's foot at his waist, then took a step backward to pull the man off balance. As Chaz careened off to the right, he saw the floor approaching his face. Rapidly.

Before he got his arms up to shield himself from the hit, the Batman had taken his free hand and placed it on the scruff of Chaz' neck, clenching a fistful of his jacket and shirt collar. Chaz watched as the floor appeared to rotate beneath him, a few inches below his nose. The Batman gripped him tightly by the scruff and by the ankle, spun him, and let him go. For a few seconds, he was actually airborne, sailing in Maroni's direction. Chaz crashed at Vinnie's feet, which made the Mobster drop the semiautomatic he had just pulled out. The weapon clattered to the floor, and the Batman advanced on both men. Maroni instinctively backed up several steps.

Seeing his cohort tossed like a sack of potatoes across the room, Donny did his best to swallow the throbbing pain from the broken nose, and he staggered to his feet. He lunged and grabbed the Batman's cape from behind with both fists, and yanked backward as hard as he could. The force didn't fell the Caped Crusader, but it did stop him in his tracks and leave him staggering for balance. He swung his right fist backward in a wide arc, aiming to connect with the side of Donny's face again. Donny dropped his head at the last moment and took the fist squarely in his right ear. The force of the blow dropped him, and he went down on all fours.

He looked up and saw through the blinding stars in his vision – which were as much from the pain as from the silver glitter wafting downward from the vents – that he was now the sole target of the Batman. He tried to grab onto the man before the incoming blow connected, but he wasn't quick enough. A right uppercut to the underside of Donny's jaw sent him upward and backward. He lay prostrate on his back on the floor, moaning in agony and every part of his head feeling like it was twice its normal size.

As Chaz scrambled to run back at the Batman, his foot knocked the dropped weapon away from Maroni. Vinnie cursed as he followed its path with his eyes. He watched it skid across the floor and hit Mistress Femke squarely on the crown of her head. Her eyes fluttered in response, and as she regained consciousness, she brought her hand up to cradle her jaw, which was positively throbbing.

Chaz ran at the Batman with an open switchblade. He swung it back and forth in frenzied slashes, hoping to connect with his target. Despite the armor covering his chest, the Batman inched backward with each swipe. The last modification that Lucius Fox had made to his suit allowed him greater flexibility, but the compromise was exposure in some areas of the torso. Non-armor piercing bullets could be deflected, but a simple weapon like a knife could cause a serious flesh wound.

The Batman caught onto the cadence of his opponent's swipes, and on the low end of a swing, he seized the man's wrist, twisting it so the grip on the knife would loosen. It did, and when the knife fell, he kicked it off to the side. It slid toward two male dominants, who both scrambled to be the first to pick it up, wanting desperately to have a memento to commemorate the fight. The closer dominant picked the knife up and looked at it with awe. The second dominant grabbed at it frantically, clawing at the first man. That started a second brawl, between the two men who wanted bragging rights to the knife that the Batman had managed to take from a Mafioso hit man with so little effort.

The Batman swung Chaz' wrist out to the side, spinning him to face him squarely. Chaz looked up into the eyes of the man in the cowl. The eyes were cold, hardened, and showed little amusement at having been slashed at with a knife. Chaz almost felt the urge to apologize to the man, but before the thought could formulate, his chest exploded with pain as the Batman slammed his fist squarely into his diaphragm. Chaz' eyes bulged as he gasped for air, winded by the blow. He doubled over at the waist, leaving the back of his neck exposed. The Batman brought the side of his hand down in a sharp chop on the side of the neck above the collarbone, and the man crumpled to the floor in searing pain.

Wallace turned to Jones and slapped him on the arm. "I'm heading to the dressing room. Stay here to make sure that no one follows me in." Jones nodded absently, mouth agape, unable to pull his attention from the fracas. After Chaz sprawled on the floor, Jones saw that the fight between the two dominants had escalated. A submissive was now holding onto the knife for safekeeping, allowing the men to duke it out freely. A dominatrix decided she wanted in on the tussle, so she jumped on the back of one of the men and started clawing and biting.

As Mistress Femke blinked herself into consciousness, she reached up over her head toward the object that had hit her. She felt cold metal. The grade-two concussion she sustained had wiped out her recollection at how she came to be on the floor and left her disoriented. She assumed what she felt was a restraining device dropped by one of the employees. As she brought the object around to view it, one of her fingers hit the trigger. The safety was off.

A spray of bullets shot out in Maroni's direction. Though he attempted to dive behind the partition to his VIP area when he saw the gun's barrel swing toward him, he wasn't fast enough. Two bullets hit him in the leg, and he howled in pain. Mistress Femke dropped the gun immediately, startled by the sound and the dawning realization of what it was. She liked force and the infliction of pain, to be sure, but guns were too barbaric for her. She preferred a more personal touch.

She eyed the weapon on the floor and sat up. "What the fook is that?" She looked at the figure in a cape towering in the center of the floor. "What the fook is going on here?"

The sound of the gunfire was deafening inside the cavernous room, and everyone had hit the floor instinctively. Except for the Batman. He remained standing, undaunted, in the middle of the room, scanning for Maroni. From his crouched position, Jones watched as the caped man's eyes swung toward him. Jones froze, as his gaze locked with the Batman's.

Ambivalent feelings coursed through him: he wanted to run, for fear that somehow the Batman would instinctively _know_ that he was in the Joker's employ, and would beat the tar out of him for it; yet when he first saw the Batman before the fight started, Jones had the epiphany that the vigilante was his only possible ticket away from the clown. He felt compelled to run both away from and toward the looming figure. Not being able to reconcile the conflicting feelings, he stayed rooted in his spot, eyes wide and slack-jawed.

The Batman assessed the man in the open doorway, and quickly deduced that he wasn't one of Maroni's men. His glance shifted as he searched for Vinnie, and when he spotted the partially hidden man lying on the steps to the platformed VIP area, he advanced with conviction.

Until another gunshot rang out.

This one came from the opposite side of the room, from where the three men from the bar had entered. All eyes turned toward the man at the head of the pack, whose arm was outstretched, gun in hand. A jagged movement from the middle of the room drew everyone's focus back to the intruder.

The Batman staggered, and then he fell forward. He landed with a resounding impact, having no chance to cushion his own fall. Lying in a collapsed heap of basalt on his stomach, he didn't move. Many of the spectators actually gasped and exchanged glances in horror, realizing that the Batman had just been shot in the back.

________________________________

Their questions, and thinly veiled accusations, resounded in Gordon's head in a cacophonous torrent long after the press conference had ended.

"How many casualties does the GPD anticipate by the end of the evening?"

"Do you think that the ferries will be targeted again?"

"How long will this assault on the city last?"

"Has the source of the video feeds to the news stations been identified yet?"

"Do you have any proof that Lois Lane is still alive?"

"Was the pile-up on the Gotham Expressway an accident, or was it also orchestrated by the Joker?"

"Have we seen the worst of it, or do you think that there will be more disasters as the night wears on?"

"Do your teams really have the training to combat this type of terrorism, or is the city truly at the mercy of this madman?"

"What progress has been made in locating the Joker since his first video was released?"

"Commissioner Gordon, do you feel personal responsibility for this catastrophe, as it was under your direction that the Gotham Police force focused their resources on fighting the organized crime gangs, rather than tracking down the Joker after he escaped from Arkham?"

And his personal favorite: "Would you be taking any additional efforts to stop the Joker, if you knew your own family was in jeopardy?"

Jim Gordon had never verbally eviscerated a reporter before in his life, but he had come damned close at that question. Galled that anyone would insinuate that he was putting anything less than one hundred percent into the frantic efforts to keep the city safe, it was a slap in the face to hear an implication that only the safety of his own family would change the strategy he employed for protecting the city.

He also didn't appreciate the visual it called forward from his memory bank: since the night when Harvey Dent had held a gun to his son's head and nearly shot him, Gordon's dreams were visited by that image again and again, but usually with a far worse outcome for his son. It haunted him: it so easily could have played out far worse than it did, had the Batman not intervened. The guilt that Gordon felt over his son being put through the trauma had kept him from getting much sleep over the last year.

He removed his glasses and set them on the bathroom counter, turned on the faucet and splashed cold water in his face. Reaching for a paper towel, he looked at himself in the mirror. The stark greenish tint cast by the fluorescent lights overhead did little to flatter him, casting shadows under the bags of his eyes and accentuating the deepening crevasses at the nasolabial folds. _Haggard. I look like a defeated man, old beyond his years._

He felt old, and he felt defeated. Little sleep, lack of attention to what he ate – despite the best efforts of his wife Barbara – and the stress of his job had taken a visible toll on him. He eyed the waist of his pants. The belt was pulled to fasten at the very first belt hole, but the pants still gapped atop his withered frame. When Mayor Garcia had named him as Loeb's replacement, he knew the mantle would be heavy… but he couldn't have foreseen what would lie ahead.

The fallen district attorney who took with him Gotham's inspiration.

The escalation of the gang wars in the underground world of organized crime.

The ostracism of the Batman.

And now, the return of the most bloodthirsty criminal Gotham had ever known.

Gordon couldn't keep up at this rate, and he knew it. Only at Barbara's urgings did he see a physician for the constant anxiety. He'd even experienced a panic attack for the first time a few weeks earlier, which had been no picnic. He'd made the decision to hide the recent pharmaceutical assistance prescribed by his doctor from the rest of the force. Their resolve was already unsteady, and knowing that the man at the helm of their ship had to medicate himself wouldn't exactly inspire confidence. The only person in house who knew of his medical condition was Detective Joe Murdock, who had appeared to be understanding of the situation, and had sworn to Jim that he'd tell no one.

He shook his head at the prospect of his medical status being leaked to the public. One reporter with a particularly barbed tongue had asked Mayor Garcia if he felt that Gordon should be replaced as the police commissioner. Of course, Garcia had adroitly sidestepped the question, which he wouldn't have done if he had been free from doubt over Gordon's capabilities. The frosty alliance the two shared hadn't gotten any better in recent months, and if Garcia knew that Gordon had been prescribed anti-anxiety medication, his tenure as police commissioner would likely come to an end, by providing the mayor with a cogent reason to remove him. Whether it would come in the form of a demotion, or an outright termination of employment, banished from the force in disgrace, was anyone's guess.

Gordon couldn't allow that to happen; not out of ego, but out of a sense of personal duty. He was sworn to protect Gotham, and he would continue to do all that he could to see his charge through to that end. He knew that he had enemies, and that they were likely delighting in the crushing stress he weathered, but he would do all he could to endure.

There was also the matter of the Batman, now seen as a vigilante. Gordon was his only ally inside the GPD, and it was an alliance that both men needed.

Gordon put his glasses back on, and walked back to meet with the Gotham Bomb Squad. He hoped that wherever the Batman was at that moment, he was closer to saving Lois Lane than Gordon was to saving Gotham from the Joker's madness. Gordon couldn't bear the thought of both of them falling short in their endeavors.

As he walked to the front of the squadron to make his address, he tried to ignore the tightening in his chest, and the dull throbbing in his left arm.

________________________________

For the short time Lois was in the bathroom, the Joker had opened up his bag of tools. He looked at the face of Lois' watch, and chose the first item from the bag based on the missing moon.

From a velvet protective sheath, he removed an authentic French Laguiole knife. He extended the blade and held it up appraisingly under the harsh glare of the spotlights fastened to the ceiling. He admired the craftsmanship and the artistry carved into the handle. Thinking of its original use employed by shepherds, his Glasgow smile broadened across his face. He bit his lower lip to stifle his laughter. Maybe he'd force Lois to make a sheep's bleating noise when he would cut her with it. _C'mon Queen of Tarts… let's hear you say it: baa, baa, baaaaaa…_

He retracted the blade and placed it in the pocket of his pants.

Next he pulled out a DeWalt power drill, and looked it over. The spiral grooves of the bit had dried blood in them, giving it a macabre candy cane two-tone appearance. He ran his fingers down the bit, feeling the crests and valleys of the cold steel against his skin. Holding the drill in one hand, he placed the tip of the bit to the underside of his wrist and pressed down. The tip was dull, so the skin didn't break.

 _Good._ He walked over to the wall closest to the door to The Room, and placed the drill on the floor next to the wall.

There were a few other toys in the bag. The Joker furrowed his brow, trying to decide which ones would make the game the most entertaining. He settled on a nail gun, which he placed on the floor next to the wall with the windows, sprinkling some rusted nails in a pile next to it. Against the third wall, he placed a roll of fishing wire with a coiled natural fiber laid rope. Next to the remaining wall, he placed the bloodstained hammer that he had used to nail the belts to the floor.

Whether or not any other toys would be pulled from the bag later on would depend entirely on Lois. _Let's hope you perform_ well _, Mizzzz Lane._

Having laid the toys for the game in place around the room, he went to the bag that Wallace had brought from Flesh For Fantasy. He was eager to see what type of outfits a submissive named Pink Sarah would have. After all, Lois needed an outfit for the next video. Not just for the recording of the video, but also for The Lesson he was going to teach her. He wanted to make sure that she understood fully, and a submissive's outfit would be a means to that end.

_Videos, lessons, games with weapons… so much fun to be had, and so little time…now let's see what little number you'll be wearing._

Unzipping the bag, he saw an abundance of cotton candy pink. He started to bounce on the balls of his feet with anticipation, and let out a cackle of glee. The color was perfect; so modest, so docile, so submissive… all the things that Lois Lane was decidedly _not._ The Joker could tell just by looking at Lois that she likely didn't own a single item of pink clothing, and probably hated the color to boot. Women who drove black Mustangs tended to be more the brandy drinkers who strode about in bold colors, not the Cosmopolitan drinkers who flitted around in pastels.

He lifted a baby doll satin camisole out of the bag, with pink ribbon bows along the top. _Bows! Even better._ The bottoms were a high-cut lacey doll panty, with pink ruffles on the backside. He dropped the outfit and bolted outside into the hallway, closing the door behind him. He didn't want to give away the surprise to Lois just yet, should she be able to hear his amusement above the running water from the sink's faucet. Outside of The Room, he threw his head back and howled with laughter. _Pink bows over her tits and pink ruffles on her ass. If this won't be a Kodak moment, I don't know what is._

He wiped at the tears that started to form with the back of his hand, and stepped back in The Room. He heard the sound of water rush through the pipes as the toilet flushed. He started to stuff the outfit back in the bag, to hide it from Lois before it was time to pull it out, when he saw that there were a few other… _items_ in the bag.

He took inventory: a pair of pink shoes with bows on them, a pair of handcuffs, a rider's crop, a Cat o'nine tails, a blue ball gag, two small bottles of lubricant, a roll of tinfoil and a jar filled with star-shaped silver glitter.

 _Interesting assortment of tricks of the trade._ The Joker had his own version of toys that he liked to play with, but upon consideration, maybe some of these would be of use to him as well.

He closed the bag, and started twirling Lois' watch with his wrist. She was taking too long in the bathroom. He decided to pull the Queen of Tarts out, so that they could let the games begin. He strode to the door and swung it open, cocking his head to look at her. "What are you waiting for? The toilet flushed and you didn't come out. Were you primping in front of the mirror" (smack) "so you'd look your best for me?"

________________________________

The cobalt blue lights continued to twirl overhead. Mistress Femke staggered to her feet, which was no easy accomplishment with a concussion and platform stilettos. The two bodyguards who stood behind the man with the drawn gun moved forward quickly. "Mr. Maroni! Sir! Where are you?"

They heard his moans coming from his VIP enclave, finding him lying on the steps grabbing his lower leg with gritted teeth. They rushed to his aid, one of them phoning the private doctor who was on the Mob's payroll for just such an emergency. Maroni's wasn't the type of injury that could be brought to a hospital for treatment, as all cases of gunshot wounds had to be reported to the police. The other bodyguard took Vinnie's arm around his shoulders and hoisted him to his feet, helping him onto the couch.

It wasn't the first time that Vinnie had been shot, but that fact did nothing to abate the pain, which was considerable: a bullet in his calf, and another lodged on the side of the fibula, every movement was agony. He shook his head. "That bitch shot me! That fuckin' dyke shot me!" He glared at Mistress Femke, who leaned against a wall for support. He pointed at her. "You're gonna pay for this, you cunt!"

All the employees watched the exchange, holding their breath.

She returned his hostile stare and barked back at him. "I deed nothing to you on poorpose! It was an acceedent! I deed not know what that theeng was when I peeked it upe! Thees ees not my fault!" She teetered, and fought to steady herself.

Maroni knew she was telling the truth, but he was no less pissed off. "We're not through with this, you and me." He nodded in the direction of the dressing room. "Now, get out of here! I'll deal with you tomorrow!"

She narrowed her eyes at him, tossed her head and stormed out of the room through the open entryway, careening a bit as she went. She breezed right past Jones, who was still in a crouched position like everyone else from the sound of gun fire. Jones was watched as the gargantuan woman huffed past him and down the hallway into the dressing room.

 _Oh, shit._ Jones' mouth went dry, as he watched Mistress Femke walk into the same room where Wallace was searching for his lost cell phone.

________________________________

Lois tried to swallow, but her mouth felt as dry as parchment.

The Joker pocketed her watch, and she turned from him as she processed his explanation about the symbolism of the lunar phases. The idea of his "recreating" her as he had promised sounded threatening, but she couldn't wrap her mind around it. She was dizzy, and the pain from the roughing up she'd sustained at his hands had returned. She ached all over.

He took her by the arm and brought her back over to where the belts were nailed to the floor. "Sit down," he instructed, pushing her down by her shoulder. She dropped faster than she though she would, and landed hard on her backside. She sat on the floor and crossed her legs at the ankles, supporting herself with palms down on the floor.

The Joker regarded her with curious detachment, as he circled around her slowly. Looking up at him, her face was once again cast in the penumbra of his body, and she could not see his facial features. Considering what there was to look at, perhaps that was a good thing. He was once again the blackened demon visitation above her.

He walked in a complete circle around her, stepping over her outstretched legs as he did so. It amused him to see how she would try to follow him with her head, not knowing which way to look when he would pause tauntingly directly behind her. He wanted to see her do it again, finding her bewilderment almost endearing. The clown walked around behind her and stopped. She turned her head to the right, then to the left over her shoulder, anticipating his circling around, but he didn't enter her field of vision. She felt a wave of panic well in her chest.

He stood two feet behind her, his feet wide apart. Bending over the top of her head from behind, he reached down to put his hands on the sides of her jaw, and tipped her head backward so she could see his face suspended directly above hers. "Looking for me?" He grinned, and pulled her head back between his his knees until her center of gravity was off, then he let go. Her torso dropped backward and she didn't have time to catch herself before the back of her head hit the floor again, between his feet.

"Jeez, Queen of Tarts," he said with a leer, as he towered over her. "Are you just clumsy, or were you tryin' to peep at my goods?" With her head resting on the floor between the Joker's feet, she was being treated to an unobstructed view from below of his crotch. He licked his lips. "Good thing I decided to wear pants today instead of a skirt, or I'd feel so violated by your probing eyes." The room filled with his raucus laughter. She clamped her eyes shut, and her head throbbed. _Oh, go to hell, you perverted jackass._

The Joker stepped over her to reach into his bag for a couple of items, then he sat down by her side on the floor. "You might want to open your eyes, Mizzzz Lane, because I have something" (smack) "that ah, I think you _want."_

 _Do I dare, or is this another trick?_ She opened her eyes to see him holding a 16-ounce bottle of water in her field of vision. "I think you might, ah, be in _need_ of this." He tilted his head. "Am I right?"

Lois nodded, and a weak smile brushed the corners of her mouth. _Oh, it's about time!_ With effort, she pushed herself up into a sitting position and reached for the bottle. He watched her rise slowly, eyes roving over her. Analyzing. He offered no help.

To her dismay, she found that the twist cap's seal had not yet been broken. She tried to twist the top off, but strength failed her, the unyielding plastic cap grinding without any give into the undersides of her fingers. _Great, now even my fingers hurt._ Lois tried wrapping her bloodstained shirt around the cap to provide more friction. Nothing. She was so thirsty she was nearly delirious. Her frustration mounted quickly.

The Joker opened up a twin bottle for himself and took a generous swig, downing half the water in the container in one rapacious gulp. He watched Lois attempt to wrench the bottle top open. He enjoyed seeing her struggle. _Little Queen of Tarts isn't quite so capable and in-dee-pen-dent_ now _, is she?_ Entertained by the performance Lois was unknowingly putting on for him, he poured another generous portion of water into his own mouth. Before swallowing, he swished the water back and forth, purposely making an obnoxious squirting sound while doing so. Lois looked up at him in annoyance. Her eyes narrowed at him as he taunted her by raising his eyebrows to comical heights while he splashed the water around in his mouth, cheeks alternately swelling on each side.

He swallowed loudly. "Mmmm, _mmmmm!"_ He bit the corner of his mouth and locked his eyes on her mouth, before raising his gaze to meet hers squarely. Keeping his eyes on hers, he emptied the rest of the water into his mouth, and cavalierly tossed the empty bottle over his shoulder. The sound of his swallowing competed with the clattering of the plastic bottle as it bounced around the room like a pinball. Then the Joker tossed his head back, and shook it with ferocity from side to side, like a wet dog shaking himself off. "Aaaahhhhh!" He tipped his head back up to look at Lois, hair wildly disheveled. "That was _goooood._ Nothing like a quenching drink of water to hit the spot. Right, Loissssss _?"_

He snatched the unopened bottle away from her and tossed it into the air repeatedly, catching it with alternate hands each time. "I guess you don't _want_ any of this water after all, do you?" A malicious smile curled on his lips. "I'll just give your water to Barkerrrrr when he returns. Of course, that could be a while." He stood up and turned to walk away.

"Wait!" Her voice was scratchy, and she held her hand out after the bottle. She could feel her chest start to spasm with the throes of a crying jag that she was dangerously close to falling into.

He looked over his shoulder at her, an eyebrow cocked. "What?" He looked down at the bottle, then back at her again. "Th – this? Do you want… _this?"_ He stretched out his arm, shaking the bottle teasingly in front of her.

"Yes," her eyes were fixed on the bottle, fingers stretched out trying to reach it.

He snatched it back out of her grasp, and placed his free hand up to his chin, as he puzzled over the situation. "Let's see… you want _me_ to give _you_ this bottle of water, but you can't even open it." He looked down at the bottle and shrugged his shoulders. "You know, this, ah, this bottle wouldn't be hard for _me_ to open." His eyes grew bright. Feigning that the idea had just dawned on him, he snapped his fingers. "I know! I could open the bottle _for_ you, couldn't I?"

He hopped back over to her, and straddled her at her thighs, bending down on his knees and resting back on his heels like a playfully demonic child. Lois' eyes were fixed on the bottle, desperately anticipating the first drink. He positioned his hands to twist the top off, then stopped. She watched his hands, awaiting the next move. Nothing. She lifted her eyes to meet his. He leered at her.

"What do I ah, _get..._ for opening the bottle for you? Mmmmmm, Queen Tart- _ah_?"

Lois felt that she would go mad. His unrelenting taunting was pushing her beyond the limits of her patience and her endurance. She dropped her eyes and shook her head. _My God, how I hate you._ "I don't know." She shrugged a shoulder in defeat and looked away. She wished him dead.

"You don't _know?_ " He started his high-pitched giggling. "Well, I _do_ know." He stopped laughing and lowered his voice a register, leaning his face toward hers. "To thank me for my immeasurable gene _ros_ ity," he ran his tongue along the outside of his lips, "I ask for a small favor." The darkness returned to his eyes. "You can give me a _kisssss_."

________________________________

 

. . . . . . .

Author's Notes for "Blunt and Sharp"

. . . . . . .

_The title of this chapter refers to the different instruments by which pain can be inflicted, whether it's through the blunt sheer force of a fist, or the sharp blade of a knife. The instruments don't even need to be physical to cause harm: Lois and Jim were on the receiving end of bluntly crude or razor sharp remarks, respectively. Both types of channels can cause suffering._

_-4oC 2008.12.19_


	28. Anticipation

*** ANTICIPATION ***

**Chapter 28**

**. . . . . . .**

Sergei Kruzynski and his men had made remarkably good time. Now, it was just a matter of minutes before he would have his revenge.

The scarce smattering of cars on the road had facilitated his driver's tearing through the city streets at over twice the speed limit. People were either cowering in their homes from the Joker making good on his threats, or they had made for the Gotham Expressway or public transportation channels in frantic attempts to flee town. Few people headed for the ferries, as Gothamites didn't want to tempt _that_ fate twice with the Joker. Amidst the chaos, traffic tickets weren't exactly the highest concern of the Gotham Police Department, so the Belarussians' journey had been nearly free from obstructions, save for the drunken idiot in the Town Car who had slowed them down momentarily.

Kruzynski and his men remained in their parked car, which they had positioned along the curb behind a Lincoln Navigator. The large SUV provided just enough coverage from the line of sight from the driveway across the street. At the foot of the driveway was an impressive security gate.

Situated about thirty yards beyond the gate was Vinnie Maroni's home, a sizeable house with ostentatious statues flanking the front door, and a fountain in the center of the custom-made cobblestone driveway.

Steepling his fingers, Kruzynski leaned forward from the backseat of the Grand Marquis, resting his elbows on the seats in front of him. His chin was tipped down, and his eyes burned with retributive longing as he looked through the windshield to the driveway across the street, and behind that, to the house.

Specifically, to the light that could be seen through the clerestory windows of what likely was the living room. It was a sign that the missus of the household was home, of course. She was waiting, as she would every weeknight at this time.

But she wasn't waiting for her husband to come home. She was waiting for someone else. Sergei was glad she was still awake.

He wanted a witness.

His anticipation waxed. Looking down at his feet, Kruzynski eyed the crate of glass bottles filled with his own deadly concoction: the gasoline would splash quickly and ignite immediately, while the motor oil would provide adhesion to the surfaces it touched. The rags were stuffed into the necks of the bottles, forming crude wicks just waiting to be lit. Sergei clenched his jaw.

Chance had not smiled on his brother Yugevny, when one of the Mob's snipers had fatally wounded him in the neck on the night of the failed weapons deal. Nor had favor fallen on the side of his brother Nikolai, when he had charged at the men who found his makeshift rebel outpost, only to be shot at close range six times in the chest by a Belarussian national soldier.

But luck did seem to land on Sergei's side this evening. At last.

He smiled at the plan's simplicity. He wouldn't even have to waste good explosives on the job. It would be cheap, it would be poetic, and it was finally coming to fruition after months of planning. Vinnie Maroni was about to get paid back in kind for the deaths of Kruzynski's family members.

"You see that light on inside the house?" Sergei reached forward to point between the two men who sat in the front seats. They nodded. "That would be _Mrs._ Maroni. She's waiting for a light silver SL500 Mercedes to pull into the driveway."

The younger man sitting behind the wheel looked at Kruzynski. "I thought Maroni favored Italian sports cars."

"He does," the large Belarussian smiled. "She's not waiting for her husband to show up."

Both henchmen exchanged glances and raised their eyebrows. The older man let out a whistle that sounded like a bomb dropping from the sky. "That's pretty bold of her. Stupid. Does she have a death wish, cheating on her husband in his own home like that with another man?"

Kruzynski slowly shook his head. "I didn't say that she was waiting for _man_."

This drew snickers from both goons. "A _woman?!_ Maroni is married to a lesbian who's having an affair behind his back with another woman?" The younger man slapped his thigh and laughed, while the older man shook his head in disbelief.

Sergei corrected him: "No, she's not having an affair."

The younger man stopped laughing, and confusion clouded his face. "Okay, I don't get it. What's going on?"

"She's waiting for her _daughter_. Her name is Tessa, and she's a student at Gotham University, but she lives at home." He eyed the clock in the instrument cluster. It read 11:52. "She'll be coming any moment now."

The older henchman looked at the clock, too. It seemed a rather odd time of night, yet Kruzynski seemed so sure of himself and of the timetable for their plan. He turned his head toward his boss. "How do you know she's coming home _now_?"

Kruzynski's reply was cold. "I know because of anorexia nervosa."

His two lackeys exchanged glances, completely befuddled. The younger man behind the wheel eyed Sergei in the rearview mirror. "What? What does _that_ mean?"

The older man shrugged his shoulders and asked, "Who is Anna Reksyanervosa?" He looked at the younger man behind the wheel. "Is this a new informant of ours?"

The younger man shook his head at the older. "No, it's the name of a disease. It's when bitches get real skinny because they won't eat." The older man nodded as if he understood, but he was still in the dark. The younger henchman didn't understand much more than the older. "I still don't get what that has to do with anything."

Kruzynski briefly explained: "Mina is in the same counseling group as Maroni's daughter, because they have the same problem – anorexia. Repetitive habits and strict schedules are some of the symptoms. This is the time she returns home every night after exercising."

Mina had been one of the top-earning exotic dancers at a strip club that Kruzynski owned. She had developed anorexia a few months earlier, and had to stop working. Sergei paid for her treatment at an outpatient clinic near Gotham University, eager to get the cash cow back into performance shape. At the time Mina started her therapy, Tessa Maroni had already been in counseling for several months, ever since Salvatore Maroni and his driver were killed by the Batman.

Deeply affected by the murder of her uncle, and terrified that the rogue Batman would kill everyone in the Maroni family one by one, Vinnie Maroni's daughter had stopped eating, attempting to channel her anxiety into excessive running. She had been admitted to Arkham for several weeks, and upon her release she was on doctor's orders to attend outpatient therapy at the clinic where Mina would eventually be counseled.

The two young women hadn't exactly become friends, but they had shared stories and tried to offer each other support. When Mina eventually learned Tessa's last name, knowing that the Belarussians had been double-crossed by the Mafia, Mina would spill everything to Kruzynski that Maroni's daughter said in the confidential group therapy sessions each time she saw him. It wasn't long before Kruzynski knew more about Tessa Maroni's daily routines than her own father did.

Sergei was all too delighted to learn of his enemy's Achilles Heel.

Like many anorexics, Tessa stuck to a strict schedule at all hours of the day, fearing any deviation from the safety she felt it imparted through its familiarity. She ate the same foods, in the same meager quantities, at the same time each day. She ran at the same time each day, and went to and from class at the same time. Due to her fragile psychological state, she was not permitted to live on campus, but was ordered by her physicians and psychiatrists to board at home. Each night, Tessa would run for an hour and a half until 11:30 at the University's sports center, then return home. Sergei knew this from trailing her several times from the campus. He had wanted to have a strategic attack plan, should the time ever come to take personal revenge on Maroni.

And the time _had_ come.

Headlights illuminated the street as a car approached from the right. All men in the parked car instinctively slouched down. Sergei didn't blink, watching the car's path intently. When the headlights swung to the right, his heartbeat quickened. It was the girl, and she was right on schedule. He could see her profile in the car, illuminated by the backlighting from the landscaping; the stick thin neck, the strained expression of consternation on her face.

She pulled into the driveway, reached up toward the sun visor, and pushed a button to open the gate. Sergei handed a Molotov cocktail to each man. "This is it. Move, now." The vast size and weight of the security gate made its opening a slow process, just as Kruzynski had seen on so many other nights from a distance. Twenty-two seconds. Each time he had clocked the opening of the gate at twenty-two seconds, which allowed more than enough time to reach Tessa's car on foot from their position.

Reaching for his lighter, Kruzynski's vision was black with hate. _I only wish, Vincent Maroni, that you had_ two _daughters: one to avenge Yugevny's death and the other one, Nikolai's. Just one death will have to suffice. For now._

________________________________

When she hit the halfway point in her commute back home, Pink Sarah decided to turn her car around and return to Flesh For Fantasy. She was just a few miles from the club, and approaching quickly, glancing over at the cell phone that lay in the passenger seat.

When she had seen the photo of a man's head in the urinal, it had stunned her into silence. Everything about the image was sickening. After a few moments' time, she reasoned that it had to be a fraud, something likely photo-shopped and sent out via e-mail. She was always getting silly e-mails with photos of implausible situations, like a shark popping up out of a stream behind a fisherman, or a person appearing to jump out of a building. She decided that this photo must fall into that category: the concoction of some bored teenage boy with too much time on his hands and too little sense of decency.

Her original plan was to take the phone home with her, in case the guy who'd dropped by earlier was, in fact, the man who lost it. She hoped he would call so she could tell him she had his phone. No calls had come. Pink Sarah decided that if she didn't hear anything in a day's time, she would hand it over to the club's management, and it would be their problem to deal with, after she had made her attempt at being a Good Samaritan.

However, her plan changed after listening to the news.

The radio station that she listened to on the way home had chronicled a series of attacks on the city being attributed to the handiwork of the Joker. She had been blissfully ignorant of the chaos while inside the walls of the club. She listened as callers were phoning the station, providing eyewitness accounts of events they had seen. One call in particular had made her heart skip a beat: a caller from the Downtown Crossing station of the Gotham Subway had reported that parts of a body were showing up along the East-West line; a severed leg given to a homeless man, a foot discovered by a boy on one of the train's cars…

… and a human head left in a men's bathroom.

It was then that she realized the photo was real.

Furthermore, someone had taken a picture of it and sent it to the owner of the lost cell phone. That photo had arrived about a half hour before the caller phoned the radio station. Pink Sarah knew that she had an active imagination, and was sometimes given to alarmist thoughts, but she couldn't help but wonder if the person who took the photo of the severed head was the same person who _put_ it there.

If that actually were the case, then the person who sent the photo worked for the Joker.

It wouldn't be too far-fetched to assume that the owner of the cell phone _also_ worked for the Joker.

The God damned _Joker,_ for Christ's sake.

Knowing her son was in good hands with her mother, she'd phoned to say that she'd be a little late. Her mother had been reading, and was unaware of the siege that Gotham was under, and Pink Sarah decided it was best not to say anything. There was no sense in riling the woman if there were nothing that could be done to remedy the situation.

The important thing was to notify Vinnie Maroni that a man had been in his club who could have ties to the Joker. Pink Sarah was certain that Vinnie would never knowingly do business with someone associated with the psychotic clown, and she wanted to do what she could to alert him to the fact that he could be putting himself in harm's way.

If she could get the stolen cell phone to Maroni, maybe he could tell her for certain if there were a connection between the man who left it and the Joker. She could only imagine what other types of macabre photos could be in the phone. She didn't want to look, should they be anything like what she'd already seen.

She'd let Vinnie look at the photos instead.

________________________________

As the members of the Gotham Bomb Squad filed out of the conference room and made their way to the garage, Commissioner Gordon stayed behind to speak briefly with the squadron's captain. Detective Murdock positioned himself in the doorway, arms crossed at the chest. His superior officer had no way of knowing that he was the more interested of the two of them in hearing the progress made by the GBS.

Gordon didn't know how much more bad news he could take. "So you're saying that for all the chaos out there tonight," he motioned to the windows with his arm, "it's still as much a guessing game for you as it is for us?"

The woman nodded, lips pursed. "Our risk assessment specialists will continue to work with your teams to determine which of the 911 calls provide workable leads. We might catch a break and get something that will allow us to employ pre-emptive measures that could make a difference. There's always that possibility."

Gordon furrowed his brow. "But you don't feel that's _likely._ "

"It's too early to tell. From what we've seen so far, the transcripts of the emergency calls haven't provided enough evidence to trace a particular lead. Until we get one, our hazardous device technicians can only work with evidence from areas that have already sustained damage from explosives. The problem is, the people behind these explosions are not using specialized materials that could be tracked. They're using common elements that are cheap and abundant."

"So their supplies are endless, essentially." Deep lines of worry creased Gordon's forehead.

She shrugged her shoulders. "I'm afraid so. From our standpoint, all we can do with any authority is sweep the scenes to verify that no foreign accelerant was used. If we find any trace of that, we'll go from there. The ball is in your court, Commissioner. It's going to take good detective work to intercede and stave off impending attacks."

 _Of course the ball's in my court. Where else would it be?_ Jim put his hand on the woman's shoulder. "Thank you, Janice. I know that you're doing all you can. We'll do everything we can on our side to help your team."

Janice nodded, and made her way to the door. Detective Murdock stepped aside to let her pass. She looked over her shoulder at the commissioner with concern. She wouldn't want to be in his shoes for anything. "Sir, take care of yourself." Gordon was one of the few officers in the city who gave a damn, one they couldn't afford to lose. By the look of him, he already had one foot in the grave. Reaching for her radio, she left the room.

Murdock took a deep breath. Her assessment was exactly what he wanted to hear. It was likely that he'd have neither the time nor the opportunity to destroy further transcript evidence of the calls that were incoming with eyewitness accounts of the Joker's crew, which could provide investigative leads. However, he felt confident that evidence of the leads he did destroy could prevent the GPD from any immediate revelations as to the Joker's whereabouts.

As he surveyed Gordon's pallor, he wondered if Jim would last that long. There was a slick sheen of sweat forming on the man's brow. Time to feign concern: "Sir, are you feeling alright?"

Gordon looked down at the floor. "Joe, I need to phone my wife." He walked absently past Murdock and out the door to his office. The detective followed him.

"Would you like me to continue to monitor the transcripts that come through the 911 lines for leads?"

Gordon sat down behind his desk, took off his glasses and rubbed his left arm at the bicep. "No. No," he exhaled long, "I think we need you out there to see what you pick up." He turned on the TV to GCN, which was currently showing footage of ambulances trying to make their way to the injured on the Gotham Expressway. Many had stalled at the tollbooths, which were about a mile north of the Winter Hill Overpass.

"Any starting point in particular?"

Gordon pulled out his cell phone. "Yes. I'm thinking that the Downtown Cro—" His words were cut off as he sucked air in through his teeth sharply and visibly winced.

Murdock took a step toward him. "Sir, are you alright?"

Jim closed his eyes and squeezed his upper arm, attempting to block the shooting pain that was radiating from his chest.

________________________________

The bodyguard stepped up the platform steps to address his boss. "Sir, he's on his way." Maroni nodded and cursed again. _If that fuckin' doctor doesn't get here within the next few minutes, I'll put a couple of bullets in_ his _leg, and see how he likes it._

The bodyguard who had shot the Batman advanced on the body with trepidation. One of the submissives standing against the wall yelled at him. "You killed him!" He ignored the guy, and continued to survey the fallen figure. He looked down to see Donny, who was lying on his back with blood all over his face. Donny reached up a hand to his cohort. "Man, help me up."

With effort, he was hoisted to his feet. For all the pain he was in, he chuckled when he saw the motionless body on the floor. "I'm glad you shot him. That motherfucker broke my nose." Donny walked by the body to Chaz, to help him up off all fours. The bodyguard with the gun inched over to the black boots that the Batman wore. With his foot, he gingerly nudged one of the boots, to see if there were any physical reaction. None. He put his gun back into his belt holster, and turned toward Maroni and yelled to be heard over the music.

"So what was this guy after?"

Maroni couldn't see the Batman for the partitions of the VIP area blocking his view. From the sound of it, the vigilante was down for the count. He smiled and shook his head. "He never told me. We didn't a chance to get that far in our _little talk_." Maroni had assumed that the Batman was there to shake him up over one of his illegal dealings, with his allegations of how comfortable he had become in assuming Sal's role as _capofamiglia._ Not that it mattered now. The man who had murdered his half-brother was dead.

The first person he thought of was his daughter Tessa. Perhaps she could finally forgo living in such fear of the Batman, and could start to heal. As soon as the pain subsided, he wanted to check the pulse of the Batman himself. He just wanted his little girl to be able to feel safe and stop slowly killing herself from struggling horribly with her irrational fear of being stalked by the caped vigilante.

The Batman was dead, and his daughter would finally realize that she was safe from harm.

"Help me to my feet," he instructed, and two bodyguards lifted him upright. He pointed to the fallen man. "Take me to him."

Maroni wanted to know _exactly_ who was responsible for turning his daughter into a haunted ghost of her former self. "I want to personally take off that mask and see who that motherfucker really is."

________________________________

_. . . . . . ._

Author's Notes for "Anticipation"

. . . . . . .

_Gordon is in denial that he's in the early stages of a heart attack, but Murdock recognizes the signs. As bad as Jim's situation is currently, it's only going to get worse; almost as bad as what's about to happen to Tessa Maroni, as Sergei Kruzynski and his men take their misplaced fury out on her, to get back at Maroni for weapons that the Joker intercepted._

_-4oC 2008.12.20_


	29. Malice for Malice's Sake

*** MALICE FOR MALICE'S SAKE ***

**Chapter 29**

**. . . . . . .**

Curtis slammed on the brakes, and his car pitched forward. He hadn't had the foresight to be wearing his seatbelt, so his forehead hit the top of the steering wheel. "Motherfugger!" He rubbed at his head with the heel of his hand, as he reached back under the driver's seat and pulled out a crowbar.

He opened the car door and nearly dropped to his knees from both inebriation and the disorienting blow to the head. Walking around the car toward the trunk, he shook his head a few times in an attempt to clear it, and he started to laugh. He didn't have time to think about pain. He'd had another brilliant epiphany as he formed a plot to kill the Joker, and he laughed at his own cleverness and the impending humiliation of the clown.

Staggering up the sidewalk toward the place that had caught his interest, he swung his head backward to look at the car. He'd managed to land the vehicle's front and back right wheels up on the curb in his haste to stop abruptly. Not that anyone was around to see, and had they been, they wouldn't have cared.

He ambled a few shops down until he came to a costume store that was closed. With a shit-eating grin plastered across his face, he took the crowbar to the front door, shattering the glass. An alarm sounded, which reverberated in his head at a deafening pitch. He couldn't understand why anyone would put an alarm system on a bush-league store that sold low-end costumes. He ducked inside and turned on the lights, not caring who could see him from the street. He made his way by each aisle, reading the placards that hung above them.

When he found the aisle he was seeking, he turned to reach behind the counter near a register, to pull out a few plastic bags. Shuffling down the aisle, he found what he was looking for, and smiled broadly. " _MISTER Joker,"_ he said, mocking Barker's idol worship, "you're about to be demoted in this circus. It's my turn to be ringmaster."

He stuffed the sacks full with stolen merchandise, snaked back through the broken glass of the entryway and returned to the car. He put the bags on the front seat next to the crowbar, a handgun and a taser.

The car dropped off the sidewalk as he accelerated and headed down the road, careening a bit as Curtis fought to stay within the lane demarcations.

He passed by the familiar pizza dive known as Spanky's Pizza Pies, with a tacky sign on the roof of a smiley-faced pizza, made out of pepperoni and mushrooms.

He was minutes away from the lair.

________________________________

As Barker stepped out of the Civic in the parking lot of Spanky's Pizza Pies, he didn't see Curtis drive by behind him. His eyes were fixed with concern on the front door. It was almost midnight, and he was fearful that they had closed early.

Very fearful. Mr. Joker really wanted his pizza, and this was the restaurant he wanted it from.

A nineteen-year-old high school dropout named DJ watched the TV from behind the counter. It wasn't much of a restaurant, just a counter for ordering and three unclean formica booths along one wall, with the TV mounted on a stand up near the ceiling. He rested his chin on the broom handle, transfixed by the footage that Gotham Cable News was broadcasting about the destruction all over Gotham. He called back over his shoulder to his friend. "Damn, man, that is so wicked _awesome!"_

His friend, only two years younger and even less educated, adjusted his baseball cap and rested his forearms on the counter of the open passthrough window separating the kitchen from the registers. He had taken the moniker AJ, even though those weren't his initials, so his nickname shared a cadence with that of the friend he looked up to, who was now tossing the broom around in boredom. "I know, man. We need to be out in that, soakin' it up!"

That had been their original plan: business had been so slow, so they had decided to shut down early and try to see all the chaos with their own eyes. However, while cleaning up they kept getting distracted from their tasks by the changing footage on TV.

"Aw, _c'mon_! Are you shittin' me? Look at the time!" AJ pointed forward to Barker who was scurrying toward the front of the store. "Dude, did you lock the door?"

DJ dropped the broom, vaulted over the counter and rushed to the front to try to lock the door before Barker could get there. Barker saw the kid's intentions, and bolted toward the door from the outside. Both hit the door at the same time, but DJ's size and strength easily trumped Barker's. He twisted the lock, and flipped the sign around so that it hung squarely in Barker's line of vision, proclaiming in bold white font atop a red background, "Sorry, We're Closed".

DJ smirked at Barker and shrugged his shoulders. "Sorry man," he said through the glass, "you shoulda been faster." He spun around and AJ howled with laughter, reaching out to slap his friend's hand as he came back around behind the counter. "Man that was priceless, lockin' that creepy little fuck out."

Barker stood outside in a panic. He started to bang an open palm on the glass. "Excuse me! Excuse me, I need to order two pizzas!"

AJ was red in the face from laughter, as he shouted to Barker through the glass. "Yeah, well call Domino's, or somethin'! I hear Pizza Hut is open late!"

Barker reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a thick stack of bills, waiving them in the air. "I've got money to pay you if you open up and make me my pizzas!"

Both young men's jaws went slack at the sight of the money wad. Depending on the denomination of the bills, the weird little man outside could be holding anywhere between $500 and $5,000 in cash. Barker called to them again. "Please, all I need is two pizzas!"

The truants looked at each other and back at Barker. DJ leaned forward. "How much you got?"

Barker looked down and thumbed through the wad. "I can pay you for the pizzas, and give you each $100 cash for your trouble."

Wanting to impress his older friend, AJ declined the offer rashly. "Nope, not enough, man."

DJ wasn't amused, and punched the younger kid in the arm. "What are you doin'? $200 between the two of us could go pretty far at the billiard hall—"

"I can pay you each $500 cash!" Barker waved the bills in the air. He didn't think that Mr. Joker would mind terribly how much he spent, as long as he got his pizza. Money never seemed to be scarce around the lair when it was needed.

DJ decided it was an offer they couldn't refuse. "Okay, man, it's a deal!" He walked up to the door, wondering where this odd little man had come from, and why he totally lacked the streets smarts that any other person would have employed to keep that kind of cash hidden and unadvertised. He clearly didn't fit in this neck of the woods. At all.

"Thank you," Barker said, slipping through the door after DJ unlocked it. "I need two large pizzas, one with anchovies, and the other with extra anchovies."

"Comin' right up!" AJ smiled in self-satisfaction at his own bartering skills, as he fired the oven back up and got out the ingredients. Barker turned to look at the TV. A smile crossed his face.

DJ took note of this. He decided that it was probably polite to engage the guy in conversation, seeing as how he was going to have $500 extra in his pocket shortly thanks to the customer's inexplicable desperation. "So, you been watchin' the news?"

Barker nodded. "Oh, yes! With great interest. Isn't he fantastic?"

DJ wrinkled his brow at Barker. "Who, the news guy?"

"No," Barker replied. "Mist—" he caught himself. "The Joker. It's amazing what he's capable of."

DJ nodded in agreement. "Fuckin' A, man. What he's doing out there is wicked righteous. Now _there's_ a guy who'd be cool to hang with. If you hang with the Joker, no one fucks with you."

Barker corrected him. "Oh, some people still make that mistake. There was a drug dealer earlier this year who said some unflattering things about him, and the Joker took his skin off when the man was still alive."

DJ smirked. "No shit!"

Barker nodded, smiling with pride. "He _did._ There was also a taxi cab driver that the Joker beheaded. That left a horrible mess, I can tell you that."

DJ scratched his arm. "Really? I didn't hear about that one on the news."

Barker turned his eyes back to the TV, completely enamored with the pandemonium that his idol was bringing to Gotham, and he practically swooned. "He's the most powerful person ever. When he talks to you, it's like he can read your thoughts."

DJ looked Barker up and down. He couldn't tell if the little man were joking or not. He decided that the guy was delusional, and chose to play along. "Really? What does he _say_ when he talks to you?" He snickered.

Barker blushed and turned to DJ. "I can't _tell_ you that. No one knows what he and I talk about. It's a secret between me and Mr. Joker." Barker turned back to the TV, which was showing ambulances slowly inching by the tollbooths to the people on the Gotham Expressway injured in the extensive pile up.

"A secret, huh? Well, what's the Joker _like_?" DJ wanted to hear what Barker had to say.

Barker spoke absently as he watched the footage, not really catching the full question. "He likes anchovies. Lots of anchovies. That's why I have to get these pizzas soon. He's hungry and has much more to do tonight." All sense of discretion was lost as Barker rambled on, drunk on the Joker's power.

DJ stared at the man. He was either totally off his rocker, or he was actually telling the truth. It had to be the former. It was too far-fetched to be true. "You're on a _pizza_ run for the _Joker_." He raised his eyebrows, and turned to see if AJ were catching any of the conversation.

"Yes. He says it tastes better here than at Arkham. I agree with him."

_Whoa._

_Arkham? The looney bin?_ DJ was sorry the guy hadn't come in sooner. It was amusing as hell to hear what he was saying, and he liked prodding him along. "So the Joker likes anchovies, huh?"

Barker nodded. "Yep, but _she_ doesn't. That's why he ordered them. To show her that his word was more important than hers, no matter what her show broadcast about him."

DJ recalled that one story line featured in the news had mentioned a female TV anchor from Metropolis who was believed to have been kidnapped by the Joker in retaliation for an unflattering broadcast about him. The hoodlum remembered the offer of a reward for information about her whereabouts. He thought that the woman's name began with an "L". Was it possible that this little man was telling the truth? The guy was probably a whack job, given his demeanor and lack of street smarts, so could it be possible that he had been a patient at Arkham, and landed in cahoots with the Joker as a result? DJ reasoned he had nothing to lose by prying further, thinking of the cash reward, if the the implausible somehow were a reality: " _Who_ doesn't like anchovies?"

Barker looked at him in annoyance. "The Queen of Tarts, of course!"

DJ rolled his eyes. _What a fuckin' froot loop. Definitely an Arkham patient._

He crossed his arms and walked to the kitchen to talk to AJ. The weirdo likely didn't have anything at all to do with the Joker, but anyone unbalanced enough to walk around this area of Gotham waving cash around might have a lot more back where he came from. And it probably wouldn't be too difficult to get it from him. He'd be easy to overpower. DJ tapped AJ on the shoulder, who looked up from the pizzas.

"We're gonna follow that guy when he leaves. I got a feeling he's got more money than what he's got on him. What do you think about you and me getting our hands on it?" AJ smiled broadly and nodded. Both boys looked through the kitchen's window out to Barker, who was watching TV.

Then, Barker turned himself around. "Oh! I almost forgot. Do you sell drinks here? I was supposed to buy alcohol, too."

The boys looked at each other - this would be like shooting fish in a barrel. DJ answered him. "No, man, we don't sell alcohol here. But we'd be happy to drive you to a liquor store nearby, so you can pick some up."

Barker nodded his appreciation. "That would be helpful. Thank you." He turned to watch TV again.

DJ looked at the back of Barker's head. _No, man. Thank_ you.

________________________________

 _Oh, God, not that._ Lois instinctively recoiled and her jaw clenched at the suggestion of kissing the Joker to get him to open the water bottle for her. She'd already had more than her share of his physical advances, and she could barely stomach the idea of more. He was repulsive in every way he could be.

The Joker registered her reluctance. It was exactly what he wanted, and he was pleased to see that his torments were having the effect he'd intended. He loved his games, and forcing someone to willfully engage in an act they dreaded to get what they wanted was one of his favorites. It demonstrated the power he wielded, and it showed that for all the posturing and airs that "polite society" put on, no one was truly above debasing themselves to get what they wanted or perceived they needed.

When stripped of the vestiges of social protection – when their backs were up against the wall – everyone was a prostitute in one form or another, whether they recognized it or not.

 _Every. One. Of. Them._ And he was going to _help_ them recognize it. Starting with Lois.

"No? Not willing to do me that favor?" He put his hand around the back of her neck and drew her face to his. She tensed under his touch. "Mizzzz Lane, I think that what I'm offering comes at a rather… insignificant cost to you." (smack) He lowered his eyes to her breasts, roamed further down to her crotch and kept his gaze there. "There are many other… _favors_ that could be _taken_ from you without any… _asking_ on my part." He licked his lips, and his eyes met hers again. "Aren't there?"

She wanted to kill him. She wished she had his switchblade or a gun or anything she could get her hands on. Wicked. He was the most wicked person she had ever encountered, and his malice knew no limits. But she couldn't do anything. She had nothing with which to attack him, and no chip to barter with. She was the white queen on the chess board, her knight having been moved out of a protective position by an impetuous hand controlling the board, leaving her exposed to the black king that was one square away.

And it was the black king's move.

She nodded, in resigned acceptance.

His eyes dropped to her lips. "There's a smart. Little. Tart."

Lois closed her eyes as she felt him close the distance between them, bracing for the onslaught that would be like the others: like the animalistic kiss when she realized who he was when she first woke up; like the ravaging kiss after he'd cut her abdomen; like the vile tongue bath that preceded his hissing his plans for Gotham into the video camera.

She clamped her teeth together, anticipating his probing tongue darting into her mouth again. But it didn't.

He softly pressed his lips to hers and held them there. He ran his hand up the back of her neck and around to the side of her face, brushing her cheek with his fingertips. He opened his lips and gently closed them on hers, slowly. Again. And again. He delicately licked the outside of her bottom lip, gently beckoning for entry into her mouth. He smoothed out her hair with his hand and brought his other hand around to cup the side of her head.

Lois felt something jolt in her. It was a physical reaction so instinctive she couldn't control it. It was the same kiss that he had given her as he coaxed her into awakening at the start of the evening. She had forgotten about it for everything else that had happened. She felt another throbbing in her body, but not from pain.

Her mind fought against the sensations her body welcomed. She reached up to pull his hands away by taking his wrists, but she couldn't move him.

And she knew that she didn't want to. She hated herself for her reaction. It ran counter to all the venom she built up against him. He was a monster. He was beyond definition.

But for all the brutality her body had endured, it was a welcomed respite. Her lips started to quiver as he licked them with the tip of his tongue; not wantonly, but with artistry. She felt her defenses fade, and she was on the verge of opening her mouth to welcome him.

Then he broke the kiss, and she felt herself leaning into him as he did so, her eyes still closed. She heard the twist of the cap and a pop of snapping plastic as he opened the water bottle for her. He rested his forehead against hers, noting that her breathing was heavy. "There. Now the bottle is open." He dropped his voice to a whisper as he put his mouth to her ear. "That wasn't so bad, was it?"

She opened her eyes with difficulty. He brought the bottle up to her lips, and let his eyes rest on her mouth. While holding the bottle with one hand, he smoothed over her lips with the thumb of his other hand. He pulled down gently on her lower lip, as she raised her hands to take the water. "And now you can have your drink…"

Lois could hear the words "thank you" form in her mind.

"… Sweet _Tart-ah_."

A sinister note hung in the air with those words.

A quick flash of movement. Lois couldn't process what was happening, weak from arousal and fatigued from dehydration. She saw, but wasn't quick enough to understand until it happened.

He roughly plunged his thumb inside the corner of her mouth as he tipped his head back to take a sizeable gulp of water. He threw the bottle down to the floor with force, grabbed her head with his other hand and brought his mouth down crushingly over hers.

Holding her head firmly, he spit the entire mouthful of water into her, some water running down her chin, but most of it flooding her mouth.

More than she could take. Much more.

Her eyes opened wide and the back of her throat burned. He held his mouth on hers until she started to choke. He drew his face back, and watched as she coughed and sputtered. She swallowed some of the water, but most dribbled down her face to wet the collar of her shirt. Some drops she violently coughed back in his face, as she tried to recover from her choking.

He felt the beads of water hit his cheeks, chin and mouth, and he laughed. The laugh crescendoed into a howl. He held her head with resolve, watching the horror and fear wash through her eyes.

She continued to cough in his face, as he laughed in hers.

Her eyes watered from the pain and from terror. Lois wanted to cry. She couldn't take the torment anymore. She was as willing to put a gun to her own head as to his. Her expression pleaded with him to stop his wicked games, but there was no solace to be found in the black abyss of his eyes.

"Lois, Lois, _Loisssss…_ you are just too. Much. _Fun!"_

________________________________

. . . . . . .

Author's Notes for "Malice for Malice's Sake"

. . . . . . .

_I envision Spanky's Pizza Pies as one of those seedy dives that makes food in generous quantities, even if it's not good. The Joker strikes me as someone who eats because he has to, not because he wants to. I doubt he cares about the quality of the food, as long as the taste isn't wretched. A place named Spanky's would probably be his choice._

_I sort of pity Barker, who likely has always been the source of derision for others. Even the young hoodlums in the restaurant delighted in taunting him. Taunting, ostracism and willful acts of violence - to me, anyway - seem malicious for no other reason than to delight in another's suffering, no matter how cruel._

_In the chess board metaphor, I envision Superman as the white knight who was impetuously moved from Lois, by the hand of Cheryl Lazlow, whose aggressive demands that Lois go to Gotham to interview Bruce Wayne started this whole mess to begin with. The Joker, of course, is the black king. No one questions his sovereignty as the most feared criminal controlling Gotham._

_-4oC 2008.12.20_


	30. A Mosaic of Midnight

*** A MOSAIC OF MIDNIGHT ***

**Chapter 30**

**. . . . . . .**

Midnight. Not a safe time to be out. Not on _this_ night. Not in _this_ city.

Not with _him_ out there.

Just as Salem, Massachusetts had their very own "witch" in Laurie Cabot, so had Gotham in Constance Wilder. She was a 62-year-old Wiccan, commonly and derisively referred to as a "witch" among those in the city who misunderstood her, as she was known to have affiliations with pagan organizations and taught on the occult as part of the Comparative Religions course at Gotham University. More sympathetic citizens believed that she was a misguided schizophrenic who would best be served under the watchful eye of Arkham's doctors. Yet others who had worked with her knew of her sharp acumen in the matters of healing and particularly of reading signs.

And there were harbingers to be seen.

Constance drew the curtains in her Victorian home, lit white candles on the hearth and called in her protective spirit guides. The signs weren't favorable.

The first one had come earlier that afternoon, while shopping for cloves and thyme at an organic grocer's. A young twenty-something man had brushed past her, and the music was playing loud enough on his iPod for her to be able to recognize it immediately as "Bad Moon Rising".

_I see a bad moon a-rising_

_I see trouble on the way_

_I see earthquakes and lightning_

_I see bad times today_

_._

_Don't go 'round tonight_

_It's bound to take your life_

_There's a bad moon on the rise_

_Credence Clearwater Revival_ , she thought. It was one of her favorite bands, but certainly not her favorite song. She didn't believe in coincidences. Every time Constance heard that song in passing, bad things followed. She had moved in the opposite direction from the young man, as if distancing herself physically from the music would block the omen.

Naturally, he had changed directions and come down the aisle right behind her.

_Hope you got your things together_

_Hope you are quite prepared to die_

_Looks like we're in for nasty weather_

_One eye is taken for an eye_

She had felt herself stiffen. Of all the days for this song to cross her path, knowing what astral confluences would unfold after dark…

_Don't go 'round tonight_

_It's bound to take your life_

_There's a bad moon on the rise_

It was late October, and the gibbous moon had waxed to full. At 10:13pm that evening, the lunar transit had pushed the moon into Scorpio, ruled by the god of The Underworld. Cyclically, it was also The Hunter's Moon; it was The Blood Moon.

It was a bad moon, evidenced by all that had been playing out in the streets of Gotham. It was a bad moon for anyone who wasn't The Hunter. On this night in Gotham, The Hunter was already laying his claim to the city with each ravaging bite he savagely tore with his dagger teeth.

As she breathed in the incense by the candles, Constance closed her eyes and pictured the face of The Hunter. She shuddered at the image of the white painted face, the black stains pooling in the orbital cavities and the garish red slash for a fiendish smile. It was _his_ time, and the city belonged to him. She had confirmed it with the toss of the runes, and the spread of the Tarot. Her lips curled downward with fret. _You don't need to be a Wiccan to foresee the evil this demon plans to unleash._

And now, it was midnight. She knew what that meant.

In the expanse of the continuum of time, midnight is the point at which the days are cleaved from each other; the invisible instantaneous rift that severs one day from the next. When the sun is below the horizon, and the clock's hands meet at its zenith, the synchronized alignment of the hands manifests into a glyph of a sword in its most threatening position: held upright and ready to be brought down in the deathblow. It stands as a metaphor for an imminent severance.

Constance ruminated on its symbolism; it heralded the separation of one day from the next, cutting the ribbon of time and allowing it to curl back on itself. Just at the cusp of the cut, a glimpse was always visible – if you knew where to look for it – of the darkness that lay just beyond the physical realm. There was a spider web-thin veil that separated the city of Gotham from the ethers of darker intentions. The veil was always most fragile at midnight, upon the death of the day. A careless slice of its tenuous fibers could allow for ominous possibilities to bleed from this more sinister realm into the streets of the city.

Somehow, somewhere, Constance sensed that this veil had been cut. There was so much evidence of wicked deeds abounding, as chaos and fear seized the city. The scope would be incomprehensible. She could feel it – for all that had been documented so far by the news stations, debated over by the pundits and dissected by analysts… there was more chaos to come.

This she could see with certainty. Merely _hoping_ that the Joker was finished with his malevolence would do nothing, no matter how the citizens of Gotham might hope that he'd terrorize them no further. Constance knew that in a dark corner somewhere in Gotham, the monster with the painted face danced his mirth at the destructions his hands had wrought. Darkness was on his side.

Constance opened her eyes to look at the clock. The hands were in place, forming the shape of a sword. Of a dagger.

Of a knife.

Of the weapon of choice for The Hunter, who would stain the streets red as Gotham lay bleeding at his hand. It was The Blood Moon.

And it was midnight in Gotham.

________________________________

Darnell crouched on the cold, grassy embankment along the southbound side of the Gotham Expressway near the tollbooths. He and Kosaczyk were perched just behind a cement support column that buttressed an overhead walkway, providing a pedestrian bridge to traverse the wide expanse of road. As Darnell surveyed the panic on the faces of the people mired in the unmoving traffic just below him, he mused that it really wasn't necessary to remain hidden at this point.

Of course, they still _would_ stay hidden until it was time to move. Those were the Joker's orders.

Many people were physically stuck in their cars, the vehicles packed tightly together from the pile up that had happened a mile down the road at the Winter Hill Overpass. Even those who were unharmed by the distant accident were still rattled by fear at the helpless predicament they found themselves in. They were trapped. Darnell ventured to guess that both he and Kosaczyk probably could have been standing stark naked along the embankment above the expressway, and people still wouldn't have noticed.

Several ambulances and a fire truck were trying to squeeze by the gates of the tollbooth, to get further down the expressway to the worst of the casualties from the colossal pile up. They were having very little success. Looking down toward the scene of the massive accident itself, Darnell had to offer a nod of appreciation to Jones and Wallace for the chaos they had created.

Now, it was his and Kosaczyk's turn to add to the fun.

Tipping his head back, and shutting one eye to the winds that gusted down from the whirling rotors, Darnell looked up to see the GCN helicopter hovering about a hundred yards above, shooting live footage of the traffic jam, documenting the futile attempts of the emergency workers to reach those most in need of medical attention. There was no on-ramp to the expressway from the point of the tollbooth down to the Winter Hill Overpass. It was just a corralled stretch of freeway. The only way for emergency vehicles to approach the critically injured was to snake through the stalled traffic.

Of course, there was only a narrow slice of emergency shoulder for people to attempt to move their cars to, to make way for the ambulances. It was a horribly cumbersome process, one that was swallowing valuable minutes of the injured peoples' lives. In actuality, the ambulances were as stymied as the rest of the cars.

Darnell smiled at all of the people before him. They were packed in, and had nowhere to run to. Cement walls defined the borders of the Gotham Expressway, originally erected to deter people from trying to climb onto the road to cross it. Those same walls contained the hapless drivers now, confining them to a stalemate from which there was no immediate escape.

Kosaczyk looked at his watch, then nodded at Darnell, shouting to be heard over the whir of the helicopter's propellers. "It's midnight! Boss wanted it done now – I'll be on the pedestrian bridge!" He swung a dark blue duffle bag onto his shoulder, and climbed up the embankment to the sidewalk, and took the stairs to the top of the walkway. When he was at the point above the middle of the southbound lanes of traffic, he set the bag down, and took out a sniper's rifle. He held up his hand for Darnell to see.

Darnell replied with a thumbs up, and stepped out from behind the support column onto the grass toward the tollbooths, surveying the ambulances. An hour and twenty minutes had passed since the initial pile up. It was enough time to ensure that traffic would build up substantially in both directions, enough time to ensure that the maximum number of emergency vehicles had been dispatched, and enough time to ensure that a news station could get a helicopter to the scene for live footage.

In essence, it was enough time to ensure that there would be as many people as possible, crammed into the most concentrated traffic artery as possible, providing ample opportunity to create the greatest number of additional casualties.

Darnell unzipped his bag, pulled out a Heckler and Koch MP5 submachine gun, and opened fire on the ambulances. Glass shattered and metal ripped apart, as the bodies of the drivers and passengers jerked backward involuntarily at the force of the assault. Kosaczyk shot from his vantage point at the ambulances further inward from where Darnell was positioned. Darnell made quick work of the firemen who were in the fire truck, as he had the range from his position to be able to kill the men in the back and the one perched in the ladder control booth. People who were standing by their cars down on the road to help direct the ambulances through traffic hit the pavement seeking cover, screaming in terror.

There were eleven ambulances at the tollbooths within firing range. Inside of a minute, all emergency medical technicians inside the vehicles were killed, leaving no one to help the injured further down on the expressway. Every man in the fire truck had been shot and killed as well.

Once Darnell and Kosaczyk had confirmed that there was no movement from the emergency public service vehicles, they opened fire on the cars. They shot without mercy, and without restraint, at nearly everything that moved.

The exception was the helicopter that hovered overhead. They needed it to record their destruction, on live TV.

Those were, after all, the Joker's orders.

________________________________

"Commissioner! _Jim!"_

The pain in the left part of his chest pushed his awareness of sound to the periphery of his congnizance. A detached observation led Gordon to the epiphany that the receding sound was the auditory equivalent of tunnel vision. His senses were honed on the tearing sensation in his chest, accompanied by the throbbing in his upper left arm. He knew what was happening to him.

 _Not now. Not like this. It can't happen… like_ this _._

He tried to swallow.

When Gordon had taken the oath to serve and protect Gotham as an officer of the law, he knew the price of that commitment. Every officer that went before him and came after him knew the price: there was always the possibility that one day, his job could cost him his life, whether being felled by the knife of a junkie, or being downed by the bullet of a thug's gun.

Gordon would have traded his current situation for either of those scenarios gladly. If he were to lose his life on the job, it should be in the line of action, actively seeking to protect the city.

Not in an office, as a passive death from the betrayal by his own body.

This couldn't happen to him. His family needed him. _Gotham_ needed him. There was a monster out there, and Gordon hadn't finished seeking him out.

He willed himself to stay conscious.

Detective Joe Murdock regarded Gordon with hesitation. The Joker hadn't given him instructions for a situation like this. He hadn't been told to kill the commissioner outright, but he also hadn't been told specifically to help keep him alive. Murdock tried to weigh the choices as best he could. Should he let Gordon die by withholding treatment for the heart attack? It would be so easy to do.

No, it was best to keep him alive. If Gordon died, there was no lock-in for a replacement. A fresh replacement would mean that Murdock would have to start over, learning the political affiliations, alliances and methods of another commissioner. He'd have to build up trust again. That would take time, and he'd already won Gordon's trust, and had an inside view of how the commissioner worked. Murdock reasoned it was good business sense to keep him alive.

Besides… the Joker seemed to enjoy watching the toll that the job was taking on Gordon. Murdock shrugged inwardly. _Who am I to deny the Joker one of his amusements?_

He rushed to Gordon's side, and placed a hand on the commissioner's shoulder. "Jim!" He bent down to get at eye-level with Gordon. "Jim, focus on my voice. I need you to listen to me. Do you have any Aspirin in your desk?"

Gordon closed his eyes, and processed the question. He considered it, and nodded weakly.

Murdock reached for the phone on the desk, and called 911 for an ambulance. Between directions to the dispatcher, he eyed Gordon. "Where, Jim? Point to the drawer it's in," he instructed, tightening his grip on the man's shoulder to provide a focal point for the commissioner's attentions.

Jim's hand trembled as he motioned to the top left drawer. Murdock released his shoulder and opened the drawer. He brushed some stray envelopes away to reach for the plastic bottle, as he provided the location for the medical team to reach Gordon to the dispatcher on the phone. He hung up and tapped out a couple of Aspirin from the bottle. "Jim, I need you to open your mouth for me. You're going to chew these tablets and swallow them, okay?" There was no time to let the enteric coating dissolve. The medicine needed to dissipate in his system as quickly as possible.

Jim's eyes were already distant. He absently opened his mouth, a thin line of spittle starting to drool down at the right corner of his mouth. Murdock placed the pills on his tongue. "C'mon, Jim. Focus! Chew the tablets."

Gordon opened and closed his mouth slowly, the taste of the bitter pills providing enough stimulus to wake him up a bit. Murdock reached for a half-full cup of cold coffee left forgotten on the desk. "Drink this to help swallow the pills." He raised the styrofoam cup to the commissioner's mouth, and tipped it up. Some coffee dribbled down Gordon's chin, but enough got into his mouth to facilitate his swallowing. When Murdock saw the commissioner's Adam's apple rise and fall a few times to confirm swallowing, he stood up.

"I'm going to see if I can locate a medic here in the building. I will be back as soon as I possibly can." He leaned in and gave a squeeze to Gordon's shoulder again. "I want you to picture your family, Jim. Hang in there for them. I'll be right back."

As Murdock sprinted from the office, he genuinely hoped that Gordon would survive. Having to get to know the workings of a replacement would be a huge pain in the ass, and frankly, he didn't want to go through the trouble again. He looked at his watch, to clock how much time Jim had. It was midnight.

Unless he found a medic immediately, Jim wouldn't last much longer. _I wonder if the Joker would be pissed with me if Gordon dies._

He hoped he wouldn't have to find out.

________________________________

Tessa Maroni tapped her fingers nervously on the steering wheel, fraught with tension as the heavy security gate took its sweet time to swing open. It was the part of her return home each night that she feared most, when her car was at the bottom of the driveway in an uncovered position. She was an open target, and she knew it. The Batman would have no problem killing her if he chose. It would be comically easy for him to do so.

Her mother thought her excessively paranoid; she saw herself as realistic. She knew who her father was, and what his associations were. The _capofamiglia_ in Gotham's Mob had enemies who would gladly see him dead, and it followed that family members were fair game as well. Her mother had tried unsuccessfully to quell her fears, assuring her that she had seen too many episodes of The Sopranos and too many movies about the Mafia. "It won't happen like that for us," her mother had told her. "Your father is one of the most powerful men in Gotham. People fear him, and they wouldn't be foolish enough to do anything to harm us."

Tessa had frowned her mistrust. _Regular_ men – of course – would never be bold enough to harm the Maroni family, but the Batman was no regular man. He'd already proven this by first boldly dropping her uncle Salvatore off the fire escape outside his own club, shattering his leg on the pavement below. He'd gone even further when he murdered Uncle Sal and the driver of his limousine a short time thereafter. Just because no one had seen the Batman in almost a year didn't mean he wasn't still out there. He could be waiting at any time to finish off the rest of the Maroni family. It was why she stayed vigilant.

The gate wasn't yet at the halfway point. _For the love of God, open faster, would you?!_

Tessa drew her breath in sharply as she registered movement from the corner of her eye, out the driver's side window. She instinctively recoiled at seeing two large men approaching her car. They walked with purpose, each one with an arm behind his back. She registered what this meant, and relief washed through her. _Not the Batman_. Not _the Batman. I'm safe._ They were just regular men, surely some of her father's bodyguards, weapons drawn to protect her but hidden behind their backs for discretion, should there be anyone around to see. Tessa nodded gratefully for the extra security they were providing.

She lowered her window. "What's going on? Does my dad have a message for me?" Sometimes her father's bodyguards would relay information when her father was tied up in a "business meeting" and couldn't be disturbed.

The two men stopped a few feet from her car, and looked at each other. The one with the stern expression and thick black brows turned toward her and answered. "No, actually, _we've_ got a message for _you_ to give to your _father_."

Her heart leapt to her throat. The accent was foreign… and not Italian. It sounded Slavic, and there was malice in their eyes.

A bright light caught her attention on the passenger side of the car. A third man, younger than the other two, stood by the passenger side door. He was holding something that was burning. A bottle.

She looked at the gate with undiluted panic. Even if she floored the accelerator, she couldn't squeeze the car through the opening, and she was too close to build up the momentum to push the gate open with the force of her car.

The men next to the driver's side brought their hands around from their backs, and she saw that they, too, were holding Molotov cocktails. Her eyes welled with tears, and she looked at them pleadingly. _Oh, God. Please no. NO!_

Before she could verbalize her plea for mercy, Kruzynski threw his bottle with force onto the steering wheel of her car, shattering the bottle and spraying burning liquid everywhere. The flames quickly rushed up her coat sleeves where the motor oil had affixed itself, caught her hair on fire, and the flesh of her face began to burn. Her body reflexively thrashed as she shrieked in agony, the indescribable pain searing her. Her seatbelt held her in place, preventing any movement to swat out the flames. The passenger window shattered, and the young man threw in his bottle, smashing it on the glove box. The third man tossed in his bottle as well, and all three scampered back, the girl's shrieks nearly drowned out by the hissing of the flames that quickly engulfed the inside of car.

The Belarussians ran for cover toward their car, then ducked inside. Kruzynski looked at the car's clock, so he could mark the time of his revenge; he'd want to savor this moment for a long time to come. He smirked. _Midnight. Easy enough to remember._ His henchmen watched the car burn, but Sergei did not. He watched the house. Waiting for _her_ to come out. It wasn't long before she did.

Mrs. Maroni ran screaming from the house toward her daughter's car. She hadn't closed half the distance from her house when the car exploded.

From a distance, it was just another explosion, on a night filled with them; but this was the only one the Joker couldn't claim as his own.

Mrs. Maroni lifted herself from the ground, her face the very mask of agony. She screamed and ripped at her own hair, grief consuming her as she watched her daughter's body burn. She ran to the car, even knowing there was nothing she could do. It was a mother's instinct.

The young henchman started up the car, and pulled it to the base of the driveway and stopped, as Kruzynski had ordered. Sergei lowered the window in the back seat and looked directly at Mrs. Maroni, whose sobs caught in her throat at the sight of him.

"Missus _MARONI!"_ Kruzynski bellowed at her, leaning out the window to make sure she saw his face, yelling over the din of the burning car. She saw him and froze, her mouth open in a wailing lament. She recognized him from the newspapers.

"Tell that husband of yours that we _Belarussians_ don't like being double-crossed! We told him to give us our mother fucking weapons, but he didn't! _I_ lost family because of it – now it's _your_ turn! Tell Vinnie we want our fucking weapons back or next time, we'll burn _you_ like a pig on a spit, you Mafia _bitch_!"

The car sped off, and Kruzynski kept his eyes locked on Mrs. Maroni's horror-struck face. He smiled at her before the car turned out of sight. Revenge was his. She understood.

And so had Tessa Maroni right before she burned alive.

________________________________

Vinnie Maroni ordered his bodyguards to help him to the Batman's body. He knew that he shouldn't be moving around much until the doctor could treat the wounds from the bullets in his leg, but he didn't want to wait. He wanted to see the face of the coward who had to hide behind the guise of a bat. He wanted to see the person responsible for murdering his half-brother Sal and Sal's driver. He personally wanted to spit on the face of the man who had turned his daughter into a near basket case from paranoia.

As Vinnie's men helped him out onto the middle of the floor, the employees of Flesh For Fantasy also closed in, curious to see what their employer was planning to do. Would he unload a clip of bullets into the body? Have the body beaten for good measure, to make sure he was dead? Unmask the man?

Jones stood up from his crouched position near the open entryway. He, too, wanted to see what would happen. He felt himself catch his breath when the Batman was shot. He didn't want the man to be dead. He needed him alive, to help get him away from the Joker. Jones didn't care if the Batman ended up throwing him in prison at this point… Jones knew it was the least he deserved, given the role he'd played in killing so many. He pictured the tarp cloaking the side of the car that had started the northbound pile up on the Gotham Expressway, and tried to imagine how many people that fallen tarp alone was responsible for killing.

As Vinnie stood at the Batman's side, he ordered one of his men to turn the body over onto its back. With trepidation, one of the men used his foot to push the Batman at his shoulder, until the momentum of his torso rolled him over onto his back. Vinnie reached down toward the Batman's chin.

"Here, Mr. Maroni, I'll do that for you," his other bodyguard offered. He was concerned that Maroni would lose his balance in bending down, since he was already on one leg.

Vinnie snapped at him. "Hey, just back off, Tommy. No one is stealing this moment from me!"

Tommy shrugged his apology. "Sorry, Mr. Maroni. I just thought that you'd want to wait until the doctor got here so he—"

"And just how fuckin' long is _that_ gonna take, heh?" Maroni held out his arm to look at his watch. "It's already fuckin' midnight! It's been nearly ten minutes, and he's not here yet! I'm not waiting any longer."

Tommy nodded and held his boss' arm steady, to allow him to reach for the bottom of the cowl. Maroni smiled his satisfaction as he looked down at the Batman's face. "Okay, you son of a bitch, let's see who you—"

There was a spark, and Maroni's body involuntarily jerked as an electric current with the force of a taser shot through him. Tommy and his partner exchanged glances with one another, as they felt part of the current pass through Maroni to them. They held the unconscious body of their boss by the elbows, suspended over the unmoving body of the Batman.

Donny and Chaz came up from behind. They all looked at each other. With a nasally voice, Donny broke the silence from behind the rag he was holding to his broken nose. "What the hell just happened?"

________________________________

Wallace peeked through the crack of the dressing room door he had jumped behind. He'd only had the chance to rifle through a few vanity drawers and a locker when he heard the stomping footsteps approaching. Jones hadn't given him notice that anyone was coming. _Nice job watching my back, you limpdick._ Fortunately he'd been able to position himself behind the door to the women's bathroom before the giant blonde dominatrix had stormed in.

"Who does he theenk that he talks to like that? _No_ one fooking talks to _me_ that way!" Mistress Femke pulled off one of her platform stilettos and whipped it toward the door behind which Wallace was positioned. It made a deafening cracking noise, and he shuddered. The second shoe followed suit. Wallace recognized her as the woman whose props he'd bagged along with the outfit from Pink Sarah. He wondered if she'd even noticed. Whatever was stuck in her craw, she was angry enough to belt out a one-woman diatribe over it.

"First sumebody takes my toys! And then sumebody leaves a fooking goon by my head! I deed not shoot that asshole on poorpose! And then the moother fooker calls me a coont!" _Oops,_ Wallace thought as he listened. _I guess she_ did _notice that I took a few items._

Femke picked up a pair of handcuffs and threw them at the door. They missed the door itself, and hit the wall near its edge, ricocheting off the wall to behind the door. Right where Wallace stood. _Oh, fuck, I hope to God she doesn't come over here to pick those up._

As if reading his mind, Mistress Femke marched in his directions, cursing in her native language. Wallace was closed too tightly between the door and the wall to reach for his gun without moving the door and betraying his hidden location. He held his breath as she approached. She was a good two inches taller than he was, even barefoot, and he bet she could easily bench press as much as he could. Her rant continued: "I do not have to take thees type of treatment from anyune! Many oother places would keel to have me woork foor them!"

She huffed past the door and into the bathroom, slamming one of the stall doors shut. Wallace took the opportunity to slip out of the bathroom and back into the dressing room. He scanned the room for his cell phone but came up empty. He quickly opened up the remaining lockers and searched, but he found nothing, just a few of the female employees' cell phones, but not his. _Fuck! Son of a bitch!_ Wallace bent down to see if it had dropped onto the floor. He didn't see it under any of the benches or vanities.

The toilet flushed, and he stood up and sprinted out the door back into the hallway, toward Jones.

Toward Jones, who was oblivious to Pink Sarah standing right behind him. Both Jones and Pink Sarah were staring with their mouths hanging open toward the inside of the main room.

Wallace's heart skipped a beat. In Pink Sarah's hand was his cell phone.

________________________________

"Okay, here you go, man. Two large pizzas, one with anchovies, and the other with extra anchovies." AJ brought around the boxed pizzas out of the kitchen, and walked toward DJ and Barker who were standing under the television.

Before AJ could hand Barker the pizzas, DJ stood up a little straighter. "That will be thirty even for the pizzas, and five hundred each for me and my friend." He was grinning like the cat who ate the canary.

Barker nodded. "Of course." He had enough sense to turn his back from the boys when he pulled out the wad of money, to thumb out the exact amount. Due to his significant height advantage, DJ could see that Barker had even more money than he had promised them. _The police got their hands full 'cause of the Joker. No one's gonna do anything if we rough up this little creep and take his money._

"Here you go." Barker handed them each five hundred dollars, and he handed an extra thirty to AJ for the pizzas. As he took the pizza boxes, both boys thanked him and started to count out their money.

DJ turned to AJ. " _Barker_ here's on a pizza run for the _Joker_." He winked at his friend so Barker wouldn't see it.

"Really? The Joker, huh?" AJ did a poor job of stifling a giggle.

It didn't escape Barker's notice, who bristled at the slight. "You wouldn't be laughing if you met Mr. Joker in person!"

AJ's laughter trickled off as he looked at DJ, and mouthed, " _Mister_ Joker?" He turned his face down toward Barker and shrugged his shoulders. "Yeah, whatever, dude."

Barker stiffened, remembering the gravity of the assignment with which Mr. Joker had entrusted him. He turned to walk out the door, when DJ leaned across him and blocked his path with his arm. "Don't listen to him," he consoled, shooting his younger friend an angry glance. "You said that you needed help finding a liquor store, didn't you?"

Sulking, Barker nodded.

"Okay, then," AJ continued. "Here's what we'll do: we'll put those pizzas into a box warmer to keep them from getting cold. You follow us to the nearest liquor store. There's one less than a mile from here. We'll get the box warmer back from you after you buy the booze, and you can return to…" he tried not to smile. "… to the _Joker_ with two pizzas that are still warm and lots of liquor. Okay?"

Barker knotted his brow. "Will they still be open? It's midnight."

"Yeah, of course. This liquor store never closes." That was the truth. DJ knew that it was a favorite haunt of some of the most die hard whinos he'd ever seen on the streets of Gotham, and he'd seen more than one hooker buy some liquid courage there before heading out for another night on the corner of Trenton Avenue and 3rd.

"Okay, let's go." Barker decided it was a fair proposition. He wouldn't have to ride with the hoodlums, he'd buy liquor like Mr. Joker wanted, and the pizzas would still be warm when he returned. Barker watched warily as AJ retrieved a box warmer and put the two pizzas inside. He handed it back to Barker, who left the boys to lock up the store.

AJ looked over DJ's shoulder to watch Barker get in the black Civic. "Are we gonna tag him just outside of the liquor store? When he comes out, and his arms are full?"

DJ locked the door and motioned for his friend to join him in his '93 Dodge truck with the paint rusted off. "Nah, I want to follow him when he's done. I think he's got more money someplace else."

AJ looked doubtful. "What if he's heading back to a place with lots of people? It will be harder for us to get the money."

DJ shook his head and smiled. "You didn't hear what he said. The guy was in _Arkham._ He's a mental patient. He's probably on his way to a halfway house, or maybe home to his parents where he lives in their basement."

DJ cranked up the engine of the truck, and both he and his friend looked out the passenger side window to Barker, to make sure he was going to follow them. AJ turned back to DJ. "What if what he was saying is true? What if he really does work for the Joker?"

"You gotta be fuckin' kiddin' me. _That_ little trouser snake? Work for _the Joker_?" DJ shook his head and laughed. "You're funny, dude. That's one of the best lines I've heard out of your mouth in a long time. No way. We follow him back to wherever he goes, and if anyone gets in our way…" DJ reached over and opened the glove box, revealing a stolen handgun. "We'll deal with 'em."

AJ smiled and nodded. His friend had thought of everything. They pulled out of the parking lot, with Barker close in tow. They were going to be a lot richer by the time the night was over.

________________________________

Lois continued to cough, in an attempt to force the last of the water from her windpipe that the Joker had so forcefully expelled into her mouth from his own.

He let go of the sides of her head, reached into his bag, and pulled out another bottle of water. His peals of laughter died down as he cracked open the cap and handed it to Lois. "Here," he instructed. He kept his eyes on her.

She raised the back of her hand to her mouth, as her coughing ebbed. She eyed him with fear, looking from this new bottle mistrustfully back up to his face. He leaned in toward her and spoke matter-of-factly. "You ah, haven't had anything to drink in at least seven hours, so I think" (smack) "that you really should drink as much as you cannnn."

Lois took the bottle from him, half expecting him to swat it from her hand to let it spill on the floor, in another one of his cruel taunts. He made no such movement, instead watching her with unblinking eyes. Lois brought the bottle to her lips and took a sip. He cocked his head and kept his eyes on her. She paused, sizing up whether he was planning on striking her or trying something else. After a moment she took another drink. Then she tipped the bottle back and nearly drained it.

He pursed his lips as he watched her drink. "Good-ah. I can't have you deee- _hyyyyyy-_ dra-ting on me. We gotta have you camera-ready. I need you looking…" he rolled his eyes up to the ceiling. "What's the word I'm looking for? Ah… _perky!"_ He grinned devilishly at her. Perky was about the last word Lois would ever want used to describe her. She probably liked it as much as she liked the color pink.

Lois tracked his hand with her eyes as it went back into the bag. Without letting her out of his sight, he fumbled around inside the bag until she heard the rustle of plastic. "You should really keep your energy up." He pulled out several packets of crackers, and tossed one onto her lap. She looked down at the packet, which was a travel-sized package of butter crackers with sour cream and chives spread. Something that was probably swiped from a gas station or convenience store.

She raised her eyes to meet his, confusion evident on her face. He clarified: "I'm hungry now, and can't wait for my pizzas with fishies. I didn't want to be, ah…" he touched the right outer scar on his cheek with the tip of his tongue. "… _rude,_ and not offer you something while I'm eating." The Joker raised his eyebrows at her. "I wouldn't want to be accused of having poor _manners,_ now, would I?" He ripped into his packet and crammed three crackers into his mouth at once, purposely chewing with his mouth open while he faced her.

Lois turned her eyes downward to avoid the spectacle, and opened her own packet of crackers, mumbling her thanks. She had no appetite. She was still so frightened that she was afraid that anything she ate would come right back up again. She pulled out a cracker and just held it. She knew that she needed strength, but what was the use if he was just going to kill her anyway?

He registered her hesitation. "Whassa matter?" He continued to chew obnoxiously, and popped the last three crackers from the packet into his mouth. "Doncha like the taste of chives?" With the "ch" sibilance he spewed cracker crumbs all over her. She looked at the masticated food covering her pants and blouse with disgust. "You know, Sweet _Tart,"_ he swallowed with an exaggerated gulp. "You really need to lighten up." He took out another bottle of water and washed down the crackers he had greedily wolfed down.

Lois lowered her eyes to the crackers again. She couldn't make herself eat them. He scooted himself right up next to her again on the floor, and she tensed. He put his right arm around her shoulders conspiratorially. "Didn't you hear what I said- _ah_?" His grip tightened. "I _said._ That you _need._ To _keep._ Your _strength. Up."_

_I don't care. I just want this to be over. Maybe if I provoke him enough, he'll just go ahead and kill me and we can get this over with._

"Eat your crackers, Queen of Tartsssss."

Lois clenched her jaw and narrowed her eyes at him. "I don't like you calling me that. If fact, I'm _sick_ of it," _Lo, I hope you know what you're doing, "_ you evil son of a bitch."

Silence.

More silence.

One side of the Joker's mouth curled up in a smile, but the smile didn't reach his eyes. "So. You don't _like_ me calling you Queenof Tarts- _ah._ "

Lois felt his hand slide from her shoulder to the back of her neck. _Push him, girl. Rile him up enough so he'll snap your neck and this hell will be over._ "No, I don't like it. I don't like you calling me that, or 'tart' or 'queen tart' or any of it!" She threw the crackers at him and they hit him in the neck. He didn't flinch.

The other side of his mouth hitched back further, and a grin began to creep across his face. "Reeeaaallllllyyyy?" He licked his lips. "You don't think that it's a, uh… heh, a _fitting_ name for a woman who presents herself like a _strumpet_ on TV, dressed to provoke men to beat off while they watch her, believing all the _lies_ she feeds them?"

"It's how we're presented on TV, to get the viewers to tune in. It's a game we play for ratings, that's all it is." _Do it, Lo._ "Or are you too fucking stupid to figure that out?"

He belted out a cackle in her face. She felt his hand start to rhythmically knead the back of her neck. "Getting' feisty on me, are ya? Oh, trust me, Sweet Tart- _ah_ ," he practically spat at her. "I know all. About. Games. And I'm going to show you what it's like to be bested at your own game. You think that your little" (smack) "TV show can _use me_ to win the ratings game without consequences?"

His grin grew broader as his eyes grew darker. His grip tightened on the back of her neck. "And don't… _ever_. Insinuate. That you're smarter than I am. You're not- _ah,_ Queen of Tartsssss."

She glared at him and shouted in his face. "I told you to stop calling me that!"

He licked his bottom lip. "Well, I was just calling 'em like I see 'em. What _should_ I call you then, hmmmm?" He bit his bottom lip as he snaked his right hand into her hair at the back of her head. He began to play with her hair with his fingers. "Lois Lane? Should I call you that?" He eyed her mouth. "How about 'Baby Girl'? Huh, you like that one?" He looked off to the side, then back into her eyes. "Mmm, how about... 'Joker's _Bitch'?"_ His voice dropped an octave. "You like _that_ one?" He leaned in and licked the side of her face. "Whaddaya say, baby, how 'bout I _make you my bitch_?"

He reached over and put his free hand under her jaw. Lois felt herself start to shake. _Don't show him fear. He won't do it._ She tried not to let her eyes waver, and she continued to glare at him.

A low rumble came out of his chest. "Don't like that name either? Okay, how about if I call you something else…"

The hand that was snaked in her hair suddenly grabbed a fistful of it as he tightened his grip. He yanked back forcefully and Lois immediately screamed in pain. "What if I call you a _LYING WHORE?!"_ He bellowed in her ear. " _Why don't I call you A! FUCKING! CUNT?!"_ With each word he screamed he shook his fist that clenched her hair. The pain was excruciating, and Lois gritted her teeth, screeching in agony. It felt like he would tear her hair right out, along with the skin.

As quickly as the unbridled fury washed over him, it seemed to disappear. His left hand remained under her jaw, holding her face in place so she'd be forced to look at him. He removed his right hand from out of her hair and began to run it over the back of her head, petting her in a soothing movement. "You see, _Sweet Tart-ah,_ there are a number of other names I could be calling you, that would probably be more fitting." The smile returned to his face. "So I think we both can _agree_ that being called 'Queen of Tarts' really isn't all that bad." He stopped petting her hair and rested his hand at the back of her head. "Agreed?"

Lois' resolve vanished. She nodded vigorously, tears running down her face, grateful that he had stopped. "Good. Girrrrrrrrrrl." He leaned over and planted a big kiss right on her forehead, stood up, and patted her on the head like a dog. "Now. Get up."

Before she could balance herself, he grabbed her roughly and nearly ripped her arm out of the socket as he pulled her to her feet in front of him. As she teetered to find her balance, he placed his left hand firmly around the back of her neck, reached into his pocket and pulled out the Laguiole knife. With a fluid motion he flicked the knife open and rested the tip of the blade at the left corner of her mouth.

"Do you know what this is, Lois?" The flat of the knife was resting against her lips. He drew the knife across her mouth with the blade on the far side, so as not to cut her. He wanted to watch the fear in her eyes as she registered the feel of the blade pass over lips. He eyed her mouth, considering the numerous capillaries so close to the surface, and the myriad nerve endings that made them so sensitive to pain.

Lois curled her lips inward to try to get them away from the blade. The Joker snickered when he saw this. He lifted the knife up between their faces and twisted it in the air, so she could see it. "This is the knife that shepherds in France used when they were out on the meadows with their flock of sheep. You see," he rolled his eyes upward and to the side, feigning a strain to recall his story's details. "…sometimes the sheep would eat too much grass out there in the fields." He looked at her again in the eyes. He traced the blunt edge of the blade along her cheek. "When _that_ happens, and the sheep become too bloated, the shepherds would _cut_ the sheep, to take the extra grass out."

He licked his lips. "See, when a dumb little _sheep_ that just follows the _flock_ eats too much food… gets too _complacent_ for its own good… it just needs to be _bled."_

With a quick motion, he seized Lois' right hand and brought it up between them. He ran the sharp edge of the blade over the raised padding below her thumb. The cut wasn't deep, but it bled. Lois screamed from the pain. As she looked in horror at her own hand, she barely registered that he'd made an identical cut on his left hand, mirroring the one he'd given her.

He held his bleeding hand right in front of her face, palm facing her so she could see. He watched her face as she registered that he had cut himself as well. Then he grasped her bleeding hand with his, holding her hand in his at shoulder level. His open wound was on hers. He pocketed the knife, and put his right hand on the back of her head. He drew his mouth to her ear.

"So you think I'm an evil son of a bitch, do you? Well," he squeezed her hand with his. "Now you've got some of that _evil_ in you. _Now_ you've got some of _my_ blood running through _your_ body."

Lois was horrified at the thought. She tried to pull her hand away from his but he held it with a vice grip. She watch the blood from both their hands trickle down their wrists, some of his blood on her, and her blood on him.

He held his mouth at her ear. He wanted her to _understand._ "See, Sweet Tart, all beginnings have to start with a sacrifice of some sort. You are my sacrificial little lamb. You've followed your flock dutifully, becoming bloated with the falsehoods and conventions that you've been force-fed. But I'm going to change that."

He drew back so he could look directly in her eyes. "You're ready, Lois. This is _your_ time to be recreated. I'm going to help you see just how deluded they've made you. I'm going to help you become something so much" (smack) " _grander_ than what you were before."

He held up their hands between their faces. "See? You've got some of my blood running through your veins. You're improved already."

He started to giggle. He pulled her in close, and whispered something almost inaudible in her ear.

When Lois registered what he said, her knees buckled. She looked back into his eyes, and he winked at her.

It was midnight in Gotham.

________________________________

It was also midnight in Metropolis.

Cheryl Lazlow was sitting in her office with the door closed. A half hour had passed since the episode of _Metropolis Live_ finished airing, and she was already feasting on the accolades that were coming her way. The phones were ringing off the hook; both the tip lines for viewers to report their alleged sightings of Lois Lane, and her own phone, as congratulatory calls came in from members of the board of directors for _The Daily Planet,_ of which _Metropolis Live_ was a subsidiary.

Cheryl leaned into her high-backed leather chair and opened up a vintage bottle of 1999 Dom Perignon she'd been saving for such an occasion. She'd known that hiring Lois Lane had been a shrewd move. She would ride the notoriety of her kidnapping right to the top of Metropolis' corporate media ladder. It wouldn't be long before she could kiss this second-rate show goodbye, and move onto more prestigious endeavors.

The longer Lois stayed missing, the sweeter the success. Cheryl raised her glass in a toast to Lois, hoping that the Joker had salacious plans for her that Cheryl could turn into more TV ratings gold.

While Cheryl sharpened her barracuda's teeth on the misfortune of her news anchor, Jimmy Olson paced in his apartment. He hadn't stuck around to watch the taping of the _Metropolis Live_ episode. Although it had automatically recorded on his TiVo, he couldn't bring himself to watch it at home, either.

He picked up his cell phone. Even though Clark Kent wouldn't be within range for service, Jimmy didn't care. Despite promising Lois that he wouldn't get Clark involved, Jimmy decided to call him anyway. Even if he wouldn't get the message for a day or two, there was always the chance that the group Clark was stationed with might move to an area where satellite signals could be picked up.

Hell, he just needed to voice his thoughts, even if it were only to someone's voice mail.

Jimmy had Clark's number on speed dial. Naturally, it did go straight to voice mail. He didn't care. When he heard the tone, he started rambling.

"Clark! Hey, it's Jimmy. I don't know when you're going to get this – I know that you're probably out of cell phone range. Who knows if you've got access to a radio with your base or not? Jeez, I don't know. Maybe you'll get this, maybe you won't. I just had to tell you about it, even though Lois told me _not_ to. You _know_ how independent she gets…"

Jimmy caught himself babbling with nervous energy. He stopped and took a deep breath, and started over.

"Clark, Lois is in trouble. Seriously, _bad_ trouble. See, there's this criminal in Gotham. He's known as the 'Joker'…"

________________________________

It was 6:00 am at Amundsen Scott, the bottom of the earth. The South Pole.

Clark tried to see the humor in his location. He had been sent on assignment – quite literally to the ends of the earth – to document the activities of one of the most well-funded ecological teams in the western world. LexCorp had assembled a crew of their best scientists for this scouting trip, ostensibly seeking geological samples for research into preventative measures to combat global warming. Clark was keeping his eyes open for anything that seemed suspicious; most ventures tied to LexCorp had ulterior motives, and his instincts told him that this team's expedition was a red herring to detract from another activity that would likely be much more profitable to the billionaire CEO. Lex Luthor never engaged in altruistic ventures for their own sake.

Stretching his arms above his head to rouse his body from sleep, Clark looked out the window to the vast emptiness that lay beyond the outpost. The crystals of ice atop the snow shone in the moonlight. There was nothing between him and the frigid horizon, just the cold distance of drifts and time. It was a barren landscape, not unlike the fortress to which he would retreat on the opposite end of the globe.

Somehow, right now, this location seemed even more remote.

He drew in a deep breath, as he pressed his fingertips to the cold glass of the window. The tundra outside was foreboding in its unending expanse. It reminded him of home; it mirrored the cornfields of Kansas and the daunting sheer myriad of acreage they covered. Whenever Clark thought of the cornfields, he was reminded of the first time he ever tasted fear.

The fear came from the dawning understanding of his own insignificance.

It happened at the age of five. He had never known terror until he had gotten lost in the cornfields of Smallville.

He had asked his father about the field of tall, funny-looking flowers that was visible from the second story of the barn. Jonathan had explained to him how far the cornfields of the neighboring farm stretched. To his young eyes, they reached to the ends of the earth. He had been told never to wander into the cornfields alone. And he hadn't.

Until one day, when the corn stalks had beckoned to him.

He was watching them with fascination from the safe familiarity of the barn on the Kent farm. The wind blew across their tops, and they waved to him in an undulating swath. As they pitched and straightened in the breeze, he left the safety of the barn to play among them. Clark had wandered into the cornfield, reaching up to feel the pendant leaves brush the palms of his hands. The stalks towered over him, permitting the sun only to strike his face in capricious patches. He sauntered in deeper, and it wasn't long before he got himself turned around and disoriented among the rows of maize that dwarfed him.

He had never felt so small. Everything looked the same, and the rows seemed never to end. No one could see him. As the panic set in, he began to howl in dread. It couldn't have been more than twenty minutes before Jonathan and Martha had found him, his face soaked with tears and his consciousness marred by the fear etched into it.

The landscape of Antarctica before him now really wasn't much different. Its vast scope brought to him those memories, and the feelings that came with them: memories of being small, of being unseen. Of being insignificant and lost.

The corner of his mouth turned up in a wistful smile. As Jonathan had carried him out of the cornfield, and Clark had buried his face in his father's neck, he had wished never to be lost again. Despite his manifesting into the larger-than-life hero he was destined to be, he still felt the sense of being lost.

Only those who weren't needed by someone could ever be truly lost. Metropolis needed Superman. He would never be lost to _them_.

But to _her…_

Superman bowed his head.

Lois didn't need him. It was a point she had made all too often. Lois was brash, independent, and passionate. She didn't involve herself with people and things she needed, only with those she wanted. To the same degree he had to keep his identity hidden, she was as open and forthright.

It was what made him love her.

Maybe, in that sense, she was stronger than he was. He didn't just want her, he needed her; he needed her more than he feared she would ever need him. With her, he felt unseen, insignificant. Just like in the cornfields of his youth he felt the same sensation of being lost. The one person who didn't need him was the one he wanted to need him the most.

He was struck by the irony… his physical location at the geological polar nadir was a metaphor for the distance he felt even when they would stand together on the rooftop of _The Daily Planet_ building. There was so much he wanted to tell her… but couldn't. It was his fault that she was distant. The identity he had to protect so fiercely lead her not to trust him completely. How could be blame her?

When he had accepted the assignment away from Metropolis, it was with the ulterior motive of building the resolve he needed to distance himself from Lois emotionally. _Who am I kidding?_ The fewer distractions he faced – and God knew there wasn't a hell of a lot do to at the South Pole – the more she was on his mind. Needlessly, of course. _She_ certainly wasn't thinking of _him._ If she weren't awake at her computer finishing up a story right now, she was likely asleep already.

Or possibly out with friends. Maybe even another man. He didn't want to think about it.

Dressing for the unforgiving climate, he pictured Lois. He wasn't a man of steel who couldn't be broken. He was just a man; a man who loved a woman that didn't need him, and probably could never love him.

He picked up his personal cell phone. The one that Lois never called him on. He traveled with both a _Daily Planet-_ issued phone and one of his own. Even his mother back in Smallville had stopped calling him on his personal cell phone, as she had been having so much fun sending e-mail messages, once she got the hang of it. Clark's personal cell phone was older, and it didn't have the capability to display e-mails, or even photos. Just text messages or phone calls. The only one who ever seemed to call him on this phone – and even then it was a rare occasion – was Jimmy.

Holding the cell phone in his hand, he shook his head. He'd give anything to have Lois call him on this line. He looked at the phone, as if willing it to ring.

It did not.

 _You're a fool. That will never,_ never _happen. She doesn't feel the same way about you that you feel about her. She never will._ He resigned himself to idea. Nothing would ever develop between them, no matter how much he wanted it.

_Never. And she's probably better off for it._

He crushed the phone in his hand, until nothing but metallic powder remained.

________________________________

Lois couldn't believe what she had heard.

The Joker had leaned in to her, and whispered:

"In more primitive religions – and ah, heh, you've made it _clear_ to me just how _primitive_ you think I am – this little _exchange_ we've just had is known as handfasting."

His breathing got louder, as his giggling waxed into laughter.

"It's a _marriage ceremony!"_

Then he'd pulled back and winked at her.

She felt her knees buckle. _You've got to be fucking kidding me._ She felt like she would throw up every drop of water she'd drunk.

He threw his head back, roaring in laughter at her horrified expression. She tried to wrench her hand free, but he held on even tighter.

"What's wrong, _honey bunny?"_ (smack) "Can't wait to get me into the sack to start the honeymoon?"

Lois contorted her face in disgust. He let go of the back of her neck, and slapped his thigh as he doubled over, gasping for breath from the joke. Her expression was one of the funniest things he'd ever seen. He stood upright again, his eyes shimmering with tears from his laughter.

"Oh, Sweet! Tart!" He gasped for air. "Relax and laugh it up, will ya? I'm a confirmed bachelor for life. Do you really think that I'd want to hitch myself—"

BOOM.

" _HEY, YOU MOTHERFUCKIN' FREAK!"_

A man's voice bellowed from behind her. Lois jumped at the sound of the door to The Room being kicked in, swinging open hard enough to crash against the wall behind it. Her back to the entryway, she spun to see a large man holding a handful of sacks in one hand, and a Glock in the other.

It was pointed directly at the Joker's head.

She reactively looked to the face of the Joker, to try to gauge what was happening. His smile had vanished, and his eyes blackened with something dark. Something feral.

There was a palpable silence. A tension that could be cut with one of the Joker's knives. Lois looked back and forth between the Joker and the man in the hallway. She thought it might have been one of the men who stood guard earlier, but she hadn't seen his face.

 _Has one of the Joker's own men just_ turned _on him?!_ She felt the Joker's hand tighten around her own. Was it from fear? From anger? A territorial staking of his claim on her in the presence of another man?

Was he even aware that he still held her hand?

The sound of the Joker's voice was like ice water being dripped on her spine.

"Hello, _Curtissssssss._ " Slowly the smile returned to his face, the serpentine scars seeming somehow more prominent with this shift in mood.

The Joker licked his lips. "I'm so _glad_ you could crash the party…" he sneered behind the smile, "...and _join_ in our _fun-ah!_ "

________________________________

. . . . . . .

Author's Notes for "A Mosaic of Midnight"

. . . . . . .

_(Oh, good. Even more to read.)_

_I chose to start the chapter with a one-time-only character, to set the ominous tone. For all the chapters this story has, this tale takes place over the span of less than two days. It was waaaaaay back in the first chapter that I made a reference to when this story takes place, so I wanted to help bring in a reminder: it's late October, which I have always thought to be a sort of ominous, mystical time of year anyway, with the changing of the seasons and Halloween right around the corner._

_Yes, I'm a bit obsessed with somewhat esoteric symbolism. When I wrote the chapter "A Stir of Sediment", in which Lois has her terrifying nightmare, I purposely chose to place Superman under a sky filled with stars and a full moon, as the full moon – bringing with it as much luminosity as possible – would echo the hopeful figure that Superman is. I also put the Batman under a waning moon under a starless sky, symbolic of a city whose light is being extinguished by evil, in the absence of a hero they can believe in._

_I wanted to continue that theme in this chapter. I didn't make up the terms "Hunter Moon" or "Blood Moon". Those are real, and they're the terms for the second full moon that occurs after the autumnal equinox, usually in late October. I had no idea that these classifications of moons existed until recently, long after I had already chosen to set my story in mid-autumn (late October). Once I read them, I had to put them in: what better moon phases for the Joker to be terrorizing people under than a Hunter's/Blood moon? That was too delicious a coincidence not to mention it. Knowing that the sign of Scorpio is ruled by Pluto (God of the Underworld), it just sort of fit that it should be mentioned, as all references combine to create a very ominous picture – a bad moon._

_This is the second time in my story when I've referenced a song by Credence Clearwater Revival (the first was in Chapter 7, "Foreshadowing"). I love their music, and couldn't help but put in a reference to a song that so closely captures the atmosphere of doom, as Gotham is perched so precariously on the precipice of total disaster, just waiting for the final shove from the Joker to damn the whole city to hell. In particular, I thought the line " **One eye is taken for an eye** " also mirrors the plot: after all, the Joker wants his revenge for the humiliation that he's suffered, which is how the story came to be in the first place. If there's ANYONE who would subscribe to the eye-for-an-eye school of revenge, it would be the Joker._

_I leave it up to the reader to decide whether Constance Wilder is sane or insane. She could just be a loon with a defined outlook and a defined set of rules by which she interprets everything, and perhaps she just bends what she sees to fit her perceived constructs of how nature works. Or, perhaps, she really is sane and sees that there is a darkness that surrounds Gotham that approaches the supernatural in its power. I don't think that the Joker is a supernatural demon, empowered by dark forces; I just see him as an incredibly powerful man with incredibly wicked capabilities, but I could envision some characters in the story as having to see him as inhuman, because it's the only way they can reconcile just how vast his destructive capabilities reach._

_BTW, Laurie Cabot is a real person. I visited her house in Salem, Massachusetts when I was there for Halloween in 1995. You can look her up on the web._

_It only took me thirty chapters, but I finally brought Superman into the fold, albeit briefly. (At least here he's not a passive witness to rape again, like in Chapter 25, so that's a step up.) The Joker – for my story's purposes – could NEVER harbor feelings of love, despite his being human. On the other hand, for all his physical strength and for NOT being human, I see Superman as struggling with two very human emotions – love and sorrow. He's not afraid of physical harm. He's afraid of the emotional harm of being insignificant to the person who matters most to him._

_As I mentioned in prior A/N, for this story's purposes, no sexual relationship has developed between Lois and Superman. She is intrigued by him, and has some feelings for him, but at this point is still too career-focused. Superman, however, struggles with how powerful his feelings are for her. I'm a big fan of the "guy-doesn't-get-the-girl" plot. It's a lot more dramatic than people ending up happily ever after together._

_-4oC 2008.12.27_

 


	31. Shock

*** SHOCK ***

**Chapter 31**

**. . . . . . .**

Pain exploded through the Batman's jaw and radiated outward.

It was lightning fast, dissipating before he could register its source. Then, almost instantaneously, it was gone. It was the second time inside of a few minutes that his body was assaulted with extraordinary force.

The first assault had come when the bullet fired by Maroni's bodyguard had hit him square in the back at the thoracic section of his spine. The force of the impact drove a plate of his suit's armor into his back, briefly compressing the spinal nerves and rendering him unconscious from the pain.

This second assault came not from his assailants, but his own armor.

Lucius Fox had designed the Batman's suit as much to protect the man's identity as to protect his physical body, for to be effective as the Batman, neither could be compromised. To this end, Bruce had convinced Lucius that in exigent circumstances, the suit would need to emit a pain stimulus that he himself would have to endure. It would be necessary, even though it sure as hell wouldn't be pleasant.

The first line of defense in preserving the symbol that was the Batman was in protection of the physical body: the Kevlar plates atop titanium dipped fiber, the chevron projectile blades housed in the suit's gauntlets, and the memory cloth of the cape were just a few of the myriad elements created for this purpose. All components dovetailed to create a suit that offered resourceful proactive and reactive defensive capabilities.

Of course, these functionalities didn't guarantee his being impervious to physical incapacitation.

Thus the second line of defense was directed toward protecting the Batman's identity: should the first line of defenses fail, the cowl was designed to shock any would-be assailant who got close enough to attempt to remove the Batman's mask, facilitating the preservation of the Batman's anonymity.

The destination of the electrical current emitted from the cowl was predicated on two factors in tandem: physical compression or distortion of the cowl's base under the chin coupled with a reading of the Batman's heart rate monitor inside the Batsuit. Localized physical pressure at the base of the cowl could only come at the hands of someone other than the Batman trying to remove the mask; if the cowl incurred such a distortion while the heart rate monitor registered higher than 100 bpm, an electrical shock from the cowl was driven solely into the assailant. The logic was that a higher heartbeat reading indicated that the Batman was still conscious, yet had managed to become physically subdued to allow someone close enough access to reach the cowl. However, if the heart rate monitor registered fewer than 100 bpm, an additional shock was directed back toward the Batman himself, the assumption being that a jolt was needed to rouse him from unconsciousness.

As Vinnie Maroni had pulled at the base of the cowl to unmask the unconscious Batman, an electrical current with the force of a M26 taser shot 1500 volts through the Mobster's body. An additional current, at a fraction of the strength but nonetheless excruciating, was sent through the Batman as well, jolting him from the void of consciousness brought on by the bullet to the back. Lying prostrate on the floor at Flesh For Fantasy, the Batman registered this pain both physically at the focal point of his jaw, and visually as a bright light behind his closed eyelids. It roused him immediately, but as he surfaced to total awareness, he first passed through the dark veil of a memory that was catapulted forth from the recesses of his mind.

It was the original memory associated with this pain, hitting him with the same juggernaut force as the object of the memory itself.

The Joker.

Although the visual recollection flashed in his mind's eye in the expanse of mere seconds, it was vivid enough to accelerate his heart rate involuntarily. Dramatically so.

The Batman had woken up on the pavement on his back, arms outstretched at shoulder level. He had been thrown onto the unforgiving asphalt after the Batpod had crashed into the cab of the flipped semi. As the night sky materialized above him in his vision, he had heard a high-pitched gibbering noise off to the side, which he later pieced together as the Joker mocking his own henchman at having been electrocuted.

Then, _he_ had filled his vision.

The Joker had straddled the Batman and bent down, putting a knife to his throat. As the Batman had watched the Joker's face draw near, he'd seen the man's smile darken as his eyes gleamed. The clown was a vessel of pure malevolence. Yet the Batman hadn't felt fear for his own safety with the Joker closing in, only an overwhelming sense of remorse.

Remorse that innocent people had endured their last moments in sheer terror looking at _that_ hideous grin, dying at the Joker's very hand, for the Batman's refusal to unmask himself.

He thought of the video capturing the torture endured by Brian, one of his copycats, before the Joker had killed him. He thought of officers Dent and Harvey, and of their carved smiles. The last face that those men had seen while breath was still in their bodies was the face of the Joker… as the blade of his knife did its work, and the Joker savored their anguished cries like honey.

No, the Batman hadn't feared for his life as the Joker leaned in with the blade to his throat. He felt mounting fury with himself and with the clown. He had wanted to throttle the man, wanted to close his hands around his windpipe and squeeze… but the Batman's head was still thick and his reactions slow. Before he could reach up to grab the Joker, a sniper's rifle was placed at the man's neck. The Joker had twisted his face away from the Batman, bellowing a guttural shout of wrath at the interruption. His high-strung voice was comical for the civility of the request that followed: "Can you please just give me a minute-?"

And then Gordon had toppled the Joker off of him.

_The Joker._

The Batman broke the threshold into consciousness, and his eyes snapped open. Blue lights swung overhead, and he assessed.

There was a throbbing pain in the middle of his back. It wasn't sharp, which meant the bullet didn't slip between the armored plates, but was instead deflected. It hurt like hell, but he could still move his extremities. Two bodyguards were holding Vinnie Maroni's limp body by the elbows just a few feet from him. The Mobster must have been on the receiving end of the force of the electrical shock at trying to unmask him. Behind him were the other bodyguards he had fought with earlier. None of them saw that he was awake, which could have been as much for the dim lighting in the club as for the preoccupation with their unconscious boss; the panic on their faces conveyed that they were already bracing to weather the storm of Maroni's fury when he woke up.

_Maroni._ The man had panicked and initiated his goons' attack before the Batman could steer the conversation toward the topic of the Joker and Lois Lane. Now, there likely was additional Mafia backup on the way. He needed to move, fast. She was in trouble.

_Rachel. I have to save Rach—_

_No._ Not _Rachel. She's gone._ A cold wave of fury washed through him, as he corrected his bearings.

_Lois. I have to find Lois Lane. I can't let him kill her, too._

The Batman knew he couldn't redeem himself for Rachel's death by saving Lois. Nothing would ever purge that guilt from his conscience. Yet he couldn't help but feel a personal sense of urgency and bitterness over this kidnapping. Lois reminded him of Rachel: her stubbornness, her strength, her clarity of purpose, her dedication to pursuing the truth. He couldn't let this happen again.

Not at the hands of the Joker.

For as terrible as Rachel's murder had been, the act itself had been instantaneous. She hadn't been taunted or physically tortured for the Joker's amusement beforehand. The Joker had made it clear that Lois would receive no such reprieve.

To the contrary, he would make sure he drew out his time with her for as long as he could.

The Joker had all but promised this in the voicemail he had recorded on Lois' cell phone for the Batman to hear. It was clear the Joker wanted him to know just how dreadful he would make the experience for her.

"I may not have gotten to play with Mizzzz Dawes before I blew her to Kingdom Come, but I'm definitely going to plaaaay with Mizzzz Lane."

The video clips the Joker had sent to the GPD already validated his intentions. The first, evidence of the Joker's enjoyment of Lois' fear as she discovered the corpse she'd been lying against. The second, evidence of his lecherous intents as he manhandled her on film.

God only knew what he was doing to her when he didn't have one hand tied up by holding a video camera.

_That conniving son of a bitch. He's doing this to get at me. He'll torture_ her _to get to_ me, _and not give it a second thought. She's nothing to him, and he'll abuse her however he can without conscience._

The Batman knew he was playing right into the clown's hands, but what other choice was there? The Joker had never touched Rachel like _that._ The very thought of the Joker doing _anything_ concupiscent with Rachel bled his vision black with rage. Were he not a man with a higher code of justice to uphold, he would have crushed the Joker's skull for holding a knife at Rachel's cheek at the fundraiser for Harvey Dent. At least Rachel had had the Batman as her protector, and he had come to her aid swiftly.

But who did Lois Lane have? He furrowed his brow. _There's no one looking out for her. I'm the only one she's got, and she doesn't even know it. If he hasn't killed her already, she's probably terrified of dying alone without help from anyone._ He wondered if the Joker were carving her a Glasgow smile to match his own.

"Damn you, Joker."

_There_ it was. The adrenaline surge he needed. He wouldn't let that happen to her. He _couldn't._

His mind raced. Even if Maroni had any knowledge of the Joker's whereabouts or information about Lois Lane, he sure as hell wouldn't be giving it up now. Neither would any of his men. But maybe someone else in the club knew something.

In a flurry of black movement, he was on his feet. He pitched slightly for balance, but found his equilibrium quickly. He spun on the bodyguards. All of them looked at him with their mouths open, momentarily frozen with indecision. One of them reached for a gun, when the Batman held up his forearm and turned the gauntlet so that the projectile blades were aimed at the men. He growled his warning at them: _"Don't."_

All men nodded their compliance. The Batman spoke with force: "I didn't come here tonight for Maroni. I came to find out if any of you has information about Lois Lane. She's a Metropolis reporter who was kidnapped by the Joker." To his consternation, he saw genuine confusion on the men's faces. None of them were trying to hide anything; they had nothing to hide, because they knew nothing.

"Do any of you have information about the Joker's whereabouts? _Anything?"_ Again, more shrugging of shoulders, exchanging of blank glances between the men.

Keeping his arm in its threatening position ready for attack, he raised his voice for the entire room to hear. "Does anyone here have _any_ knowledge at all about a Metropolis reporter named Lois Lane being kidnapped by the Joker?" He looked over his shoulder to the faces of the employees who were up against the wall. He could see that they, too, were shaking their heads.

Hoping their silence was mere reticence at his imposing stance, he qualified: "Is there anyone here who can give me information about the Joker's whereabouts? I am not here to hurt anyone, and there are no consequences if you know something. I'm just looking for information, nothing more." Still nothing. Just more heads shaking their denial, shoulders shrugging and a few people voicing weak apologies.

_Damn._

On the far side of the bodyguards from the Batman, Jones' heart was beating like a rabbit's. _For Christ's sake, say something! This is it, this is your chance! You know exactly where she is, and where_ he _is. Tell the Batman!_ He felt his head swim. He cleared his throat, and his voice cracked as he opened his mouth.

But before he could get the words out, a woman next to him spoke up instead.

"The Joker couple was here earlier!" The waitress who had run into Jones and Wallace making her fast exit had come back, out of curiosity, when she heard the gunfire. She was peeking her head around the corner from the entryway, standing close to Jones and Pink Sarah.

The Batman narrowed his eyes at her. "'The Joker couple'?"

"Yeah, a man and his wife come here sometimes. He dresses up like the Joker. It's kind of their, um, their little 'thing' they do? Mr. Maroni threw them out earlier. He was really upset, too. He was screaming at them. I guess they freaked him out." The other Flesh For Fantasy employees looked at each other and rolled their eyes, snickering that the simpleminded waitress would think that a game of sexual role-play between two customers had anything to do with the Batman's inquiry about the real Joker.

The Batman considered this information. He knew of the frosty accord, of sorts, that existed between the underground crime groups and the Joker; they all treated him like the ticking time bomb he was, and gave him as wide a berth as possible. Certainly they feared him, but the unwritten law of crime lords at the top of the food chain was _never_ to show fear. For the _capofamiglia_ to lose his composure – in his own club where he could lose face – over something related to the Joker… there had to be something that had unsettled him enough to do so. _Did Maroni have a recent run-in with the Joker?_ Maroni might know something after all.

"Thank you, ma'am." He nodded at the waitress, and she straightened up and smiled, beaming that she had made a contribution that the Batman could use.

Of course, with the current hostilities in the room, he couldn't possibly question Maroni now. He'd have to get him alone. The Batman decided he would lie in wait outside the club for twenty minutes to see if he could nab Maroni with less backup, should Maroni be able to offer any information of use. After that, he'd have to pursue another avenue. The clock was ticking for Lois.

The Batman backed through the room toward the entryway through which the armed bodyguards had stormed. Lowering his arm, he spun and flew down the stairs and out into the night. All eyes watched with awe as the caped vigilante seemed to disappear into nothingness.

And as the Batman left, Jones was struck incredulous with exasperation. He felt fear seize him by the throat. With the Batman's departure went Lois' last chance of rescue from the Joker.

As went his own.

* * *

 

Curtis and the Joker glared at each other.

One stood triumphantly with a loaded gun in his outstretched hand. The other stood undaunted with a nefarious smile on his face.

Neither man spoke.

Lois didn't know which one was to be feared more, as she stood at the Joker's side with his bloodied hand wrapped around hers. Scanning the faces of both men, the resolve with which the Joker stood his ground did not escape her notice. He had not moved. At all. He hadn't even blinked. He just… stared at Curtis, his wide stance menacing, his head tipped forward and downward like a wild dog.

Lois held her breath. _This is borderline surreal. I'm witnessing an alpha-male showdown between a psychotic clown and his henchman._

Curtis broke the silence from his position in the doorway, the Glock 22 still trained on the Joker. "Heh, I decided to come back early, 'cause I wanted to make sure that I didn't miss out on any of the fun that was going on up here."

The Joker tucked his lower lip inside his mouth in an exaggerated show of forming his reply, which he drew out in condescension. "Ffffffffffuuuuuuuunnnnnnnn- _ah?"_ He spat the word as his expression bespoke unfettered derision.

Lois saw a flicker of fear behind Curtis' eyes. It vanished quickly and was replaced by bravado. "Yeah, clown, you heard me! Why should I have do to legwork for you out there," he waved his gun toward the windows, "when I could be enjoying some…" he looked Lois up and down "… _fun_ , in here?"

Lois' eyes grew wide as she registered the insinuation. She recalled the Joker's first warning to her about trying to leave The Room at the beginning of the evening, and what lay outside in the hallway, waiting for her. _Holy shit, the Joker was telling the truth. That thug really_ does _have rape on his mind._ She absently squeezed the Joker's hand with hers, the pain from the cut long forgotten.

Keeping his eyes on the man in the doorway, the Joker tipped his head slightly to the side. He pulled Lois in close, then turned her to face Curtis. He wrapped his arms around her from behind and placed his chin on her shoulder. "And just what type of _fun_ did you think we were having, hmm?"

Lois' heart raced. There was nothing sexual or protective in the Joker's holding of her like this. He was purposely using her, dropping hints of what could have happened between them, to bait Curtis.

The Joker was also using her as a human shield, which became apparent to her immediately.

Curtis swallowed. "I thought that you and she were probably—"

"Were you feeling left out?" The Joker straightened up and raised his eyebrows, the tone of his voice almost… apologetic, while at the same time brimming with salacious undertones. Lois felt herself stiffen at hearing his tone in his voice. Despite the life-threatening challenge for dominance that Curtis was presenting, it almost sounded like the Joker was… inviting him in.

To join them.

It didn't make sense, but little involving the Joker made sense. Did he have some scheme for a sick ménage a trois planned, even more twisted than what had transpired earlier with Barker? Or would the Joker simply hand her over to Curtis as an exchange for safe passage? As creepy as that little Barker person was, at least he was a very passive man. Curtis was clearly an extremely aggressive criminal to be attempting something like this with the Joker. She felt her blood run cold. It chilled her even more when she felt the Joker start to stroke her hair, in an unspoken suggestion of what Curtis could have if he'd come inside with them.

Curtis shifted in the doorway, feeling his loins stir. "As a matter of fact, I _was_ feeling left out." He looked at Lois again. Then he visibly shook his head, searching for his resolve. "See, I don't think I'm getting the recognition that I should be."

The Joker ran his fingers up and down the side of Lois' arm. "And what type of _recognition_ do you think you should be getting, Curtissss?"

Curtis dropped the bags he was holding onto the floor. Lois eyed them, trying to figure out what was inside. Curtis started waving the gun to make his point. "I think that I should be given a little more _respect_ than what you've shown me lately. So I'm here to make sure you make amends to me, _clown_."

Lois could feel the reverberations of the Joker's laugh rumble out of his body through her own. He placed his hands on her shoulders, and from the strength in his grip, she could feel his anger mount as he addressed the man who was becoming increasingly disrespectful. "So you're here to do… what, exactly?"

Curtis smiled and kicked at one of the bags on the floor. "Oh, you're gonna see. In fact, everyone's gonna see, _Bozo,_ because we're gonna use one of your video cameras to... record the occasion." He started to laugh.

The Joker sharply pushed Lois to the side, demonstrating his annoyance with Curtis. His smile had vanished, and he chewed on the side of his mouth. "So let me get this. Straight." He raised a balled fist to his mouth and cleared his throat. "You barge up here," he motioned with his hand around the room, "and your intention is to make me kowtow to you?"

Curtis nodded. "Yep, that's exactly what's gonna happen."

There was amusement in the Joker's voice, as he mocked Curtis with a false accord. "Uh huh."

"See, I'm gonna put you in your place, by reminding you of what you really are." He reached down into one of the bags. When Lois registered what he was pulling out, she took a few steps back.

Not from Curtis, but from the Joker.

She knew he wouldn't find the gag amusing in the least. There was likely going to be a… _scene_ as a result. Even though Curtis was the one holding the gun, Lois wondered if he had a death wish. Maybe he was just a complete idiot.

"Put it on, freak." Curtis threw a red, curly clown wig at the Joker's feet. The Joker looked down at it, eyeing it with the contempt one would save for garbage in the sewer. Keeping his chin tipped down, he slowly raised his eyes to meet Curtis'.

Curtis waved the gun at him. "You heard me, you crazy nutjob! Put on the clown wig so we can all see just what a joke you are! You're not a badass, you're just some crazy faggot who likes to play dress up and wear make up, while the rest of us do the dirty work." Curtis stuck out his jaw. "The _men's_ work."

The Joker said nothing. He just glared at Curtis. The corners of his mouth were beginning to draw downward.

Curtis wasn't done yet. "Oh, but let's not forget the rest of the outfit!" He reached into the other bag, and pulled out a giant plastic flower, the kind that circus clowns wore on their lapels that squirted water. He threw it at the Joker, hitting him in the thigh. It fell to the floor with a clatter. Then Curtis pulled out two oversized red clown shoes. He tossed the first one over by the Joker's feet. The second one he threw at the Joker with force. It hit him squarely in the chest. The Joker never made a move to catch it or block it. He let it strike him, and he made no show of pain when it did.

Lois cringed as she watched Curtis' actions unfold before her eyes. _Oh, shit. This is going to blow up, right here in front of me._ Lois swallowed.

Even though she only saw him in profile, it was evident: the Joker was didn't think it was funny.

Curtis looked into the bag, then back up at the Joker. A shit-eating grin spread across his face. "And let's not forget the final touch." He reached into the bag and pulled out something red and rubber, the size of a golf ball. Lois actually caught her breath in disbelief at how insulting the final picture was meant to be.

_Oh my God._

Curtis was holding up a red clown nose, complete with the thin elastic strap to keep it in place. "No clown is complete without their red rubber nose, now, are they?" He laughed, and looked the Joker in the face. "I'm only sorry that it's not big enough to cover up that ugly fuckin' face of yours, you freak."

He threw the rubber nose at the Joker. It hit him in the shoulder and dropped, bouncing a few times, then rolling to a stop a few feet from Lois.

Curtis motioned at the pile on the floor with his gun, and gave his order to the Joker. "Go on. Put it on, _bitch._ Show us that you're nothing more than a circus clown."

Lois could see the Joker's fists balling up at his sides at the outrage of Curtis' actions. "Is this your..." the Joker tipped his head down to his left shoulder and cracked his neck, " _idea…"_ then a crack of the neck with a head tilt to his right shoulder, "…of a joke-ah?"

Curtis was riding high on his own momentum. "No, _you're_ my idea of a joke, _Krusty."_ Curtis pretended to scan the room. "By the way, where's Side Show Bob? I mean, Side Show Barker? I'm surprised he's not up here at your side. In fact," Curtis grinned broadly, "I'm surprised that I didn't barge in on him on his knees, blowin' ya. That is the way you swing, isn't it, faggot?"

Curtis reached up to scratch his head as he continued, motioning to Lois with the gun. "I mean, c'mon! You've got this hottie up here, and she's still got all her fuckin' clothes on. You clearly aren't interested in pussy, are you, clown?" He motioned back to the Joker with the gun. "Is that why you're carved up like a freak? You try to get friendly with a man who wasn't into dick like you, and he taught you a lesson? You're lucky you didn't run into _me_ and try something like that. I would have cut up more than just your face, you crazy homo."

Lois' mouth was hanging open, and she didn't even realize it. She had never witnessed so brazen an attack on anyone before. Certainly not on someone with a reputation remotely approaching the notoriety of the Joker's. She hated clichés, but the words "train wreck" kept coming to her mind; that's exactly what this felt like to her, like she was witnessing a gruesome accident in the making, from which she couldn't look away.

Curtis looked over at Lois. "Hey, honey, get out the video camera. It's in that blue bag of his. You're going to help me film this."

Lois' mind was screaming. _Like hell I am! I don't want any part of this!_ She didn't move.

Curtis frowned at her. "C'mon, bitch, I gave you an order. What's your fuckin' problem? He's already filmed you a few times tonight, don't you want to turn the tables on him?"

Lois had to admit that she would love to see the Joker get his just desserts for what he'd put her through. But not like this. This would be crossing a line she wasn't willing to cross. The Joker already was holding her responsible for his public humiliation on television. She wasn't going to validate his wrath by participating in this revenge scene in private.

She looked from Curtis down to the floor and shook her head.

"Don't you shake your head at me, you uppity bitch! Don't think that I'm through with you. When I finish off this piece of sh—"

" _HEY!"_ The Joker shouted at Curtis, and the thug actually jumped. Licking his lips, the Joker hissed at the man in the doorway. "If you want me to play this little _game"_ (smack) "of yours, then you're going to have to put this shit on me. _Yourself-ah!"_

Curtis regained his composure and shouted at the Joker. "You put it on, you freak!"

He narrowed his eyes at Curtis. " _Noooooooooo,_ if you want this stuff on me, then, ah, come on over here. Put this stuff on me, with your own. Two. Hands." The Joker motioned to himself, coaxing Curtis over to him with a waving motion. "I'd love to see you try it, Curtis." The Joker rolled his eyes back and closed them. His voice dropped, nearly to that of a whisper. "I would. _LOVE_. To see you try." The Joker opened his eyes, tilting his chin down to his chest. He spoke up. "Or are you afraid?" The corner of his mouth turned up in a hint of a smile. "You really, _really_ should be, you know."

Curtis swallowed. "Put that stuff on, or I'll kill you!"

The Joker's voice dropped in register. "You got the balls for that, cocksucker?"

"Fuck you!" Curtis extended his arm at the Joker and fired the gun. The explosion made Lois scream and she jumped in her place, both hands flying up to cover her mouth.

The bullet flew by the Joker's head and it lodged in the wall behind him. He neither ducked nor flinched.

Curtis took a step into the room, closing the distance to ensure the second shot would find its mark. The Joker kept his eyes on him. The scars puckered on his cheeks as he drew his smile back to the full expanse his face would allow. Then came the almost melodious rise and fall of a sing-song taunt: "Yoooooouuuu... missed."

To Lois' shock, the Joker advanced on Curtis, thumping at his own chest. "Here, Curtis, aim _here._ It's a bigger target, harder to fuck up, even for an idiot like you." The Joker closed the distance rapidly. Curtis was rooted to his spot in disbelief, seeing the clown come at him with such purpose, completely unarmed.

"Do it. Shoot me!" The Joker stalked right up to Curtis and stood so the barrel of the gun was resting over his heart. The Joker's eyes bored into him. "Now's your chance. Kill me." The blackness of the Jokers eyes was hypnotic in its depth. Curtis was transfixed.

Lois raised her hands over her ears, bracing for another deafening gunshot. The fear that seized her was foreign to her, and she didn't understand it. She was actually cringing at the thought that the Joker would take a bullet. Whether it was fear for his safety or for her own, she couldn't distinguish. It was unalloyed in its magnitude. She drew her breath in sharply through gritted teeth. The sound drew Curtis' attention for a second.

Less than a second. Only a fraction.

It was all that the Joker needed.

Curtis never saw the Laguiole knife coming.

* * *

 

 . . . . . . .

Author's Notes for "Shock"

. . . . . . .

_About the shock emitted by the cowl of the Batsuit: it's completely fabricated for this story._

_I have no idea what the power of the electrical current would be, so I reasoned it would be something similar to a police force M26 taser. I also decided to pair it with a heart rate monitor; it seemed something logical that Lucius Fox would incorporate into the suit. Those are not facts I took from a Batman fan site somewhere, but are just my own projections from creative license. Hopefully, they sound credible enough for the story. I mention this only because there have been some very good questions from die-hard fans about my sources for some elements of the Batman's arsenal. I just wanted to be forthcoming and say that I made this part of it up._

_Incidentally, the chapter's title refers to the aforementioned electrical shock of the cowl, and the memory it precipitates in the Batman; it also refers to the shock (horror) Lois feels in watching the scene unfold between Curtis and the Joker. For anyone (outside of the US) not familiar with the names "Krusty" and "Side Show Bob", those are names of clowns from "The Simpsons" cartoon._

_-4oC 2009.01.03_


	32. Unraveling

*** UNRAVELING ***

**Chapter 32**

**. . . . . . .**

DJ and AJ stood outside, resting against the side of the truck while Barker paid for his purchase at the register inside of the liquor store. DJ looked at his younger friend. "When he comes back out, let _me_ do all the talking, got it?"

AJ nodded, unsure of what his friend had planned, but confident that he knew what he was doing. When Barker stepped outside with the paper bag in his arms, DJ stepped forward. "Do you need any help with those?"

Barker eyed him cautiously. "No, thanks. I can get them." Then he thought better of it. "Wait," Barker looked inside the bag with uncertainty. He knew that the Joker liked Jaegermeister, and he had also picked up a bottle of rum with a guy who looked like Captain Hook on the label. Beyond that, Barker's limited exposure to alcohol had been from his grandmother's garden parties. "Daiquiris are good drinks to get, right?" He looked at the tub of strawberry daiquiri mix.

DJ and AJ eyed each other, and AJ bit his lip so as not to laugh. _Sure, for fags and grandmas._ DJ nodded, "Uh, yeah, man. Daiquiris are good."

Barker exhaled his relief and put the sack of liquor on the floor of the back seat of the Civic, and pulled out the two pizza warming boxes. "Here, you can take these back now."

DJ shook his head. "You know, I was thinking that we could just follow you back to your place, and then get the box warmers from you then. That way, the pizzas would stay warmer longer."

Barker stiffened at this suggestion. "No, I can't take anyone back with me. I have to give these back to you now." He pulled the pizzas out and set them in the car.

DJ shrugged his shoulders. "Okay, it was just a thought." He reached for the box warmers as Barker extended his arms. "Hey, my friend and I want to head out on the town, to see all the craziness. Is there any place that you recommend we go to see some good action that no one knows about yet? You know, other stuff the Joker has done?" DJ elbowed his friend, wanting to see what ridiculous plot the weirdo would come up with.

Barker considered, puffing up with pride at the thought of all the chaos Mr. Joker was inflicting all over Gotham. "Just about any place you go is going to be dangerous." Then, a smile crossed his face, and he nodded. "But definitely stay away from the Gotham International Airport."

DJ bit his lip. "Mmm-hmm. Okay, I hope that those pizzas work out, and that the, uh, the Joker likes them."

Barker was already muttering to himself as he climbed into the driver's seat of the car. The hoodlums watched as the odd man pulled cautiously out of the parking lot. DJ elbowed AJ. "Okay, get in. We're going to keep our distance, but we're following him."

AJ jumped up in anticipation. "Seriously, man? We're really going to do this?"

DJ smiled as he opened up the driver's door. "Hey, why not? Worst case scenario, the pantywaste goes back home to his mom and dad's house, and we make note of the address, in case they're home and we need to come back for a visit a little bit _later."_

He started up the truck. AJ closed his door and fastened his seatbelt. "And best case scenario?"

DJ looked at him and nodded. "If he's telling the truth about the Joker, we're gonna have the best fuckin' stories to tell at Keith's party after the Slipknot concert."

Mimicking what he'd seen on TV, DJ kept the headlights of his truck off, and pulled out of the parking lot to trail Barker from a distance of about two blocks back to the lair.

* * *

Fast. It happened so fast that Lois barely had time to process what unfolded before her.

Somehow the Joker had managed to take a situation where his life was in imminent peril and gain the upper hand, exhibiting an impressive economy of movement and of energy in doing so. As Curtis dropped to his knees, Lois stared in awe and in fear, witnessing the evidence of the Joker's mastery of the situation.

Indeed, the gears of the Joker's mind turned quicker than others'. Much, much quicker.

Had Arkham the resources to adequately subdue the man physically and dissect his cognitive abilities before his escape, the doctors would have been startled at their findings.

The dosage of the medication administered to him during his six-month stay likely would have been increased two-fold, as it should have been, to keep his mind dull and prevent his crafting an escape.

The facility's security surrounding their most infamous patient surely would have been increased three-fold, as it should have been, to keep the staff safe, should the doubling of medication fail in efforts to contain him.

But Arkham had lacked the resources needed to illuminate how great of a threat the Joker posed. Too much focus was directed toward probing his emotional triggers, and not enough gravity placed on the appreciation of the keen intelligence needed to mastermind the terror he had exacted before being caught on the night of his failed assault on the ferries. They saw what _he_ wanted them to see: a capricious maniac whose actions were apparently governed by emotional whims. They missed the frightening intellectual prowess. He successfully hid from them the clarity with which he could piece together schemes, and the acumen with which he could predict how events would unfold.

There had been only one doctor who glimpsed the true intelligence of the Joker's mind: an overly ambitious doctor named Joseph Fielding. Had Dr. Fielding lived, perhaps the asylum would have had sufficient warning not to underestimate the criminal's genius-level brilliance.

The closest the hospital had come to quantifying the Joker's intelligence was in their three failed attempts to administer IQ tests. It was after the second failed administration of a test that Dr. Fielding saw the signs of the Joker's genius; however, the doctor's own ego prevented him from sharing his findings with anyone else, wanting to single-handedly expose the madman's intelligence, and glean the accolades that would ensue.

72-year old Dr. Markov, with forty-three years of work history at Arkham, had administered the first IQ test to the Joker a month after his admittance. Dr. Markov sat at the same table with the asylum patient in a closed office, with two armed guards standing a few feet away inside the room as well. The Joker simply took the sheets of paper provided for his answers and folded them into origami shapes; one appeared to be a swan with the head unceremoniously ripped off, another appeared to be a man impaled on the pencil that was supposed to be used for marking test answers. Dr. Markov wasn't sure whether the third shape was a bird or a bat. He threw away all the folded paper shapes in disgust at the young man's apparent insolence, and administered a second test later that same day.

It was in taking this second test that the Joker had appeared to put forth actual effort in answering the test questions. Dr. Markov watched as the Joker's head shifted back and forth from the test booklet to the answer sheet. Sticking his tongue out of the side of his mouth as the pencil moved with violent strokes, he answered the multiple-choice section of the test by coloring in the ovals for each letter marking his answer with determined force. The pencil marks never stayed within the lines, of course, looking more like angry blackened explosions with jagged points everywhere than ovals. When he finished the test, the Joker politely pushed his answer sheet across the table to the elderly doctor, smiling at the guards as he did so; one guard swallowed and positioned his hand over the mace in his belt's holster, the other guard narrowed his eyes and squeezed the handle of the baton at his hip, not wanting to wait until nightfall to administer another clandestine beating to the Joker.

Upon a cursory glance over the Joker's answer sheet, Dr. Markov thought the Joker hadn't understood the point of the test; for some questions, he had actually added additional letters on the answer sheet for answer choices that didn't exist beyond the standard A through E selection, and darkened those penciled-in ovals anyway. Having administered the same test for over twenty-five years, Dr. Markov knew the pattern to the correct answers on the answer sheet by memory, and could see the Joker's answers seemed nonsense and incongruous to the questions. Scanning the answer sheet, the doctor was distracted long enough for the Joker to purse his lips in a gesture of a blown kiss at the guard whom he had recognized as one partaking in his own secret beatings after nightfall. It stunned the guard just long enough to allow the Joker to drive the pencil through Dr. Markov's hand, pinning him to the table.

In the days following the Joker's attack on Dr. Markov, the Joker had been thrown into solitary confinement, and the bloodied answer sheet for the IQ test was all but forgotten, having been determined to be nothing more than a distraction to facilitate the attack in the first place. However, Dr. Fielding – in his untiring quest for advancement and recognition from respected colleagues in his field – probed the Jokers file and reviewed the answer sheet once more.

His heart rate had quickened with excitement when he realized what he was looking at. A few hours of research confirmed his suspicions, and he immediately volunteered to administer a third IQ test to the Joker verbally, suggesting that a non-traditional approach might yield results; no guards in the room, no writing utensils of course, and a two-way mirror to allow his own safety to be monitored while he spoke with the Joker one on one. The other condition was that there would be no microphone in the room, so no one would hear the Joker's answers but him. He wanted to make sure that no one stole what would surely be his golden egg out from under him.

Only after he had probed the Joker's mind a bit further, Dr. Fielding had decided, would he finally reveal to his colleagues just a hint of the magnitude of the Joker's intelligence. They'd need to know for their own safety, of course. Dr. Fielding was arrogant in his confidence that he could establish a connection with the Joker that would allow him insight into his mind that no one else had seen yet. He smiled to himself, anticipating the riches that were to come from the distinction of being the doctor to connect with the notorious madman. Surely he would be the one to do so: he had been the only doctor to recognize that the Joker's answers were actually _musical notes._

The Joker had added bubbles for the letters "F" and "G", marking them where necessary, to complete the musical scale on the answer sheet. He had reproduced – note for note in totality – the melody for Nikolai Rimsky-Korsakov's rendering of Mussorgsky's "Night on Bald Mountain" from 1886.

However, Dr. Fielding's attempt at a third "test" had lasted only a half hour. A staff of Arkham's doctors monitoring the conversation noted that Dr. Fielding had entered the room with a bit of a noticeable swagger, and left with hunched shoulders and a dejected look on his face. The Joker cackled his laughter at whatever the last question was that Dr. Fielding had asked, never having made a rash move during the course of the conversation, save for his occasional gestures and exaggerated expressions for which he was known.

The Joker had managed to pick up on the doctor's supreme arrogance, and he ferreted out exactly how the doctor thought he would get away with using him for his own career's advancement. It had made the game all the more enjoyable for him, as he verbally emasculated Dr. Fielding, perverting the man's logic and convincing him that his reputation was a joke and a life without a respected reputation was not worth living. This, of course, had come on the tailend of the conversation, after the Joker had provided a frighteningly cogent argument for the positive economic ramifications of blowing up Gotham's natural gas refineries.

Dr. Fielding's body had been discovered by his wife the following morning. He had slit his own wrists in the bathtub and bled to death.

No more attempts were made after Dr. Fielding's suicide to understand the expanse of the cognitive capabilities of the Joker. It was deemed too dangerous an undertaking, and Arkham couldn't afford to lose any more doctors.

The next demonstration of his sharp intelligence had come when the Joker had escaped, having to quantify his situation with lightning speed, making decisions in split-seconds based on the variables at hand. It required a special awareness and mental acumen that was very quick.

Immediate, really, like a blast of light; like the rapid flash of a photographer's camera. Fractions of seconds materializing in a strategy of attack. This was how the Joker sometimes saw things before his eyes. He operated in a heightened state of awareness, his senses sharpened, infusing his thoughts with occasional sensory stimulation to complement the cognitive rationalizing. That was how his mind operated during his escape.

And it was how his mind was operating when he stood before Curtis, allowing the barrel of his henchman's gun to make contact with his body right over his heart.

Curtis' momentary distraction with Lois provided the Joker another opportunity to exercise his prodigious intelligence and act with blitz speed, as he saw his options flash before his eyes in a burst of light, just like at Arkham.

He could swipe at Curtis' gun arm with his right hand, and knock the gun away and toward the window. The problem was that Lois was near the window; Curtis might squeeze the trigger before the gun dropped, shooting her. Not an option.

He could pull out the knife from his pocket and stab Curtis in the left femoral artery. As a result of the pain, Curtis would likely pull the trigger and shoot him. He wasn't averse to dying, but he had so many lives left to unravel that it wasn't an option just yet.

He could kick the side of Curtis' knee in, crippling him.

He could knee him in the groin, but there didn't seem much sport in that.

He could force the gun upward with a jolt of his left hand, and use his right to stick the knife in the other man's balls, neck, lung, heart, kidney, eye… the choices were numerous, each with their own deliciously agonizing consequence.

It was like turning a kid loose in a candy store and telling him he could only choose _one_ flavor. The Joker didn't want to choose just _one_ option for subduing Curtis. He wanted to be able to choose _all_ of them, as he saw each outcome play before his eyes in fractions of seconds.

And so he made the decision that would allow for the most _subsequent_ consequences to play out later.

His left hand shot up to seize the barrel of the gun and he tilted it back ninety degrees toward the ceiling. Then his right hand came across with the extended knife, and he swiped at the inside of Curtis' wrist in a clean motion, severing veins and tendons, rendering Curtis' right hand useless. Curtis screamed, and dropped to his knees, clutching his right wrist. The Joker stood before him, never having moved from his spot, bloodied knife in his right hand, Glock 22 in his left.

As Curtis whimpered in pain, the Joker circled him cautiously, kicking the door to The Room closed as he did so. When he had made his sweep around the fallen henchman, he returned to the same position directly in front of Curtis, whose drunken arrogance had dissolved rapidly.

"Sooooooo," the Joker leaned forward to bring his face down to Curtis' eye level, "what was it you said that you had come here to do?" He gestured toward himself with the gun and the knife. "Re _mind_ me. I seem to have for _got_ ten-ah."

Curtis wasn't capable of particularly eloquent speech at the moment. As he stared wide-eyed into the Joker's scowling face, only one thought distilled crudely:

_Oh, fuck._

The Joker stood up and took a step backward, so Curtis would be treated to a full-length view of him. He licked his lips and exaggerated his recollection. "I remember! You said that you, ah, wanted to make sure that you didn't miss out on the _fun."_ He turned toward Lois, and slowly walked in her direction.

She didn't like the look on his face; there was unmistakable malice, but it seemed to lack focus. She was also terrified by the fact that he was now armed with both a knife _and_ a gun. Lois genuinely couldn't tell whether she or Curtis was about to end up on the wrong end of each weapon. The Joker was obviously enraged at his thug's betrayal and attempts to humiliate him, and it was anyone's guess as to who would bear the brunt of his fury.

The Joker advanced menacingly on Lois, and she recoiled into the wall, backing up as far as she could until there was nowhere left to go. The Joker swiped his tongue over his bottom lip and looked at her out of the sides of his eyes. He paused, and she wondered if he were deciding whether to shoot or stab her. He quickly reached toward her with his left hand, the bloodied one holding the gun. Lois clamped her eyes shut, bracing for an attack. He put his arm around her shoulders and walked her over toward Curtis. He stopped them both several feet away from the man, whose agonizing pain was starting to push him into the early stages of shock.

The Joker leaned his head toward Lois and rested his forehead on her right temple. "What do you say, _Sweet Tart,_ shall we show Curtis, here, some fun- _ah?"_ He turned his head back toward Curtis, and held up the knife, twisting it under the gleaming overhead lights. It was too bloodied to reflect any glints of unforgiving metal.

"Know what, Curtis?" He removed his arm from Lois' shoulders and stepped forward until he was directly in front of the cowering man. (smack) "I really, _really_ hate clown jokes."

The knife came down quickly in a fluid motion along the side of Curtis' head. His left ear was sliced from his head and dropped onto the floor in front of him.

Stunned by what she was looking at, Lois noted that the scene vaguely reminded her of the red rubber clown nose that Curtis had scornfully tossed toward the Joker earlier.

Except the severed ear didn't bounce when it hit the floor.

* * *

_No. No, no, no, this can't be happening._

Jones was shaking in disbelief. The Batman – the one person on earth who might offer him a glimmer of hope of escaping the Joker's crew alive – had not only shown up at Flesh For Fantasy at the same time he and Wallace returned to search for Wallace's phone, but he had given Jones the perfect opportunity to approach him without recourse when asking for information about the Joker or Lois Lane.

And Jones had said nothing. He blew it.

 _Honest to God, what were the chances of that happening? What were the fucking_ chances _of the Batman presenting that opportunity to me on a silver platter? And I didn't say a God damned thing!_ Now the Batman was gone, having practically vanished into thin air.

Undiluted panic overcame him. He couldn't take the compounding stress anymore. Months of mounting fear at seeing the Joker's moods grow ever darker, the guilt over his role in the terror assault on the city, and his concern for the well-being of the reporter pushed him to the breaking point.

He couldn't go back and face the Joker. He couldn't do it. He'd rather put a bullet in his own head, or at least make an attempt to break out of his role in the madness. Maybe he could redeem himself on some karmic level, however small, by offering something that could help Lois out of what had to be the greatest nightmare of her life. It wouldn't wipe out all the crimes he'd partaken in, but maybe he could help at least one person.

Two, really. He had to help himself get away from the madman as well.

Jones turned and ran down the back stairs, and through the kitchen. Wallace and the cell phone were forgotten. He stepped outside through the broken side door, and stood on the top stair in the alley scanning for some sign of the Batman.

He saw nothing.

He climbed down the stairs and jogged down the alley to the streetlamp, where he and Wallace had witnessed the bizarre exchange between the man dressed as the Joker and his wife. He looked down the street in both directions. He wasn't sure what he was looking for, but nothing stood out. Everything just looked… normal. As normal as near-deserted streets could look when the city was under the greatest terror siege in its history.

He ran back down the alley toward the club, hoping to spot something in the alley. Again, nothing. He turned back toward the street once more, looking at the service van he and Wallace had arrived in. _What do I do? Just what the hell am I going to do?_ Jones brought his hands up and ran them through his thinning hair. He looked over his shoulder at the club. He couldn't go back in there. Nor could he get in the van and go back to their lair.

He felt trapped. He covered his eyes and started to shake. He didn't have an escape. One way or the other, he was going to end up a dead man. He tilted his head back, and howled in defeat. He yanked his arms down to his sides, fists balled in frustration and opened his eyes.

When he tipped his head forward again, all he saw was black. Something in front of him, close. Very close. He blinked, trying to comprehend the shape he was looking at, just below his eye level.

It was the outline of a bat, atop blackened armor. His eyes traveled upward slowly, and he was met with the stern gaze of the Batman who towered over him, seemingly having materialized out of the ethers.

The bass voice rumbled from the depths of his chest. "Looking for someone?"

Jones looked at the figure slack-jawed and overcome with emotion. He did the only thing he was capable of doing. He started to cry.

* * *

 

Wallace hadn't even noticed Jones' departure. He was too focused on his cell phone in Pink Sarah's hand. Had she viewed the contents of the phone yet? Had she seen the photos of him and Curtis holding the rocket launcher, posed in front of the stolen weapon stash they'd intercepted? She was watching the goings on in the center of the room, as Maroni's men shook him into consciousness. That meant that Wallace had to act fast. He considered knocking her over, grabbing the phone and bolting. He didn't really like the idea of having to smash into her, but it was his _life_ he was talking about. If he snatched the phone from her hand, and went down the same staircase as—

-his train of thought was interrupted when he realized that Pink Sarah was now looking directly at him. It was clear that she recognized him from earlier, and there was something about her expression that translated into trepidation. She didn't have the same flirtatious way about her as before, and Wallace could tell it didn't have anything to do with what had just transpired between her boss and the Batman.

Something had happened to make her wary of _him._ He blanched. _Oh my God, I think she saw the photo._

There was a distance of about 10 feet between them. If he ran at her now, she could easily scream before he reached her, drawing everyone's attention their way. Wallace knew he had to take a different approach. A smoother approach. He gave her a warm smile, hoping his good looks would buy him another pass. "Hey there, I see you found my phone." He shrugged his shoulders, trying to seem as nonchalant as possible, while slowly inching his way toward her. "Jeez, I've been driving myself nuts trying to figure out where I'd left it. I came back because I thought I might have forgotten it here, from earlier."

Pink Sarah blinked at him. She opened her mouth to say something, then closed it again, eyeing him warily. She looked down at the phone in her hand, then back up at him. She made no movement to extend her arm to hand the phone back.

 _Shit!_ He could see it in her eyes. She'd definitely seen the photo.

Wallace felt himself start to break out in a cold sweat. He stepped toward her hastily, and he could see her stiffen, as if she were getting ready to scream. It was the same expression he'd seen on the faces of women in banks and galas where the Joker and his crew had made surprise appearances. He stopped abruptly, and held up one hand in front of himself in a gesture of placation, and he brought the index finger of his other hand up to his lips giving her the sign to keep hushed.

His eyes pleaded with her. "I'm not here to hurt you, I just need to get my phone back." He nodded encouragingly at her, and held out his hand. Wallace could see that she was struggling with the decision.

"I saw, um," Pink Sarah wasn't sure what to say. "I saw the… photo." She didn't want to even pull up the photo of the head in the urinal again. It was too awful to think about.

Wallace grimaced. _Oh my God. What do I say? It wasn't a real rocket launcher, and those were just toy guns in the background?_ He swallowed and offered a weak laugh. "You know, it was just a joke, that's all."

Her mouth hung open. "Cutting a man's head off is your idea of a joke?"

Wallace stopped, completely confused. _What the hell did she just say?_ His expression showed the bewilderment he felt. "I don't know what you're talking about. What head?"

"The decapitated man. From the subway, I heard about it on the radio. Someone cut a man up and," she wrinkled her nose in disgust, "left his body parts all over the place." She shook the phone in his direction. "Someone took a photo of the head and sent it to your phone."

Wallace felt his stomach wrench. _Nice one, Curtis. Real smooth and discreet, asshole._ But the annoyance quickly passed as he realized something else – she didn't mention a photo of the weapons. Maybe this wouldn't be as dismal as he thought.

She narrowed her eyes at him. "Do you work for the Joker?" She looked over toward Maroni, then back at Wallace.

 _Oh, fuck._ Or, maybe it would be as dismal as he thought. _Whatever you do, lady, don't draw your boss' attention this way._ Wallace was still obscured from view, but he didn't need any rash movements on Pink Sarah's part drawing attention their way.

"No, no." He shook his head to underscore his point. " _God,_ no! That guy's a psycho." He took another step toward her. "I just really need that phone back because the man I _do_ work for is going to break every bone in my body if I don't return it to him." _And I would be getting off lucky if that's_ all _the clown did to me._ He offered another boyish smile, the type that had gotten him off the hook with women before. "Please, can I just have it back? I promise, I owe you _big_ time. You'd be saving my life. I'm a good guy, I'm not here to hurt anyone."

Pink Sarah considered it. He seemed genuine in his denial of knowledge of the photo. Maybe he really didn't have a connection to the Joker. She looked down at the phone once more, wrenched her mouth to the side in consideration, and extended her arm. "Well, okay. Here you go."

She held out her hand. As gently as he could, Wallace took the phone from her, and he felt the weight of the world fall off his shoulders. He exhaled in relief, nodded at her, and gave her a genuine grin. "Thanks, sweetheart." He winked at her. "I really owe you one."

A blush colored her cheeks and her lips curved up in a smile. "You're welcome," she answered sheepishly. "Um, when am I going to get my outfit back?"

Wallace blinked and tried to maintain the smile. _Oh, just as soon as the Joker finishes whatever sexually perverse tortures he's got in store for a kidnapped news reporter._ He shrugged, and lied through his teeth. "I'll try to make sure we get it back to you tomorrow."

An older man came up the staircase behind Pink Sarah, blocking Wallace's escape route. He brushed by both of them without giving them notice, rushing with a medical bag into the room toward Maroni. "I got here as quick as I could. You wouldn't believe what that God damned Joker has done to traffic on the Gotham Expressway!"

Pink Sarah reactively gripped the sleeve of Wallace's jacket with worry. "Oh thank God, it's the doctor. I hope he's able to help Mr. Maroni!" Wallace looked down at her hand. She wasn't letting go of his sleeve, transfixed with what she was watching. _Damn it! Now how do I get out of here without completely undoing the trust I've just built up with her? If I cut out now, she'll know something's up, she'll notify Maroni's men, and I'm a dead man._ He decided to try to keep hidden from view of those inside the room as best he could, waiting for her to release his jacket.

Dr. Silvi crossed the floor to where Maroni's guards had gently laid him on the floor, shaking him back into consciousness. The doctor bent down and viewed the blood on Maroni's leg. "What happened here?"

"Two bullets to the leg," Chaz offered.

Dr. Silvi pulled up the pant leg and assessed the damage. Neither bullet had blown clean through the leg. One was in the calf muscle, and he'd need Vinnie's feedback to determine if the other had shattered bone or not. "Vinnie, Vinnie it's Joe Silvi. Vinnie, I need you to wake up."

As Vinnie Maroni came out of the blackness induced by the electrocution, he had the epiphany that this was possibly the worst day of his life. And it had all happened thanks to the Joker. He blinked his vision back into focus, as the day's earlier events flashed before him in a violent amalgam that nearly bordered on the comical.

The hooker he'd hired and paid for had to be dismissed early, without any services rendered, because he had to prepare for the Joker's surprise guest at Rogue. Then, he'd watched as the Joker used the back room of one of his few legitimate businesses to kidnap a reporter and hack one of his own men to pieces like some monster from a B-grade slasher film. Naturally, that had meant that Vinnie was left to clean up the mess, bending over backward to keep everything under the table so the cops wouldn't get wind of what had happened. Then, that Joker-wannabe freak and his wife showed up here at the club. Mistress Femke had bitched him out about someone taking her toys, which he'd pieced together as one of the Joker's men getting sticky fingers. Then, the Batman had appeared and insulted him, and he had been shot twice in the leg by his own dominatrix. The last thing he remembered was being helped toward the Batman who had been shot.

Now, pain radiated through his body. He felt like he'd been barbecued. Could this day possibly get any worse? He groaned in physical and exhausted agony.

"Help him sit up, slowly," Dr. Silvi directed his men.

They helped Maroni up to a sitting position. When he was finally upright, he sneered sardonically at the doctor. "Nice of you to finally show up, _Joe."_

Joe had known the reprimand was coming. "I got here as fast as I could. That Joker weirdo managed to screw up traffic pretty good."

That was the last name Maroni wanted to hear, and he winced. "What the hell happened?" He shook his right hand, where the pain seemed strongest. He saw the tips of his fingers were black.

Tommy offered, "It looked like you got some sort of shock when you reached down to touch the Batman."

 _Great._ That was the second to the last name he wanted to hear. "Where is he now? I still want to unmask that bastard myself."

Maroni's men eyed each other, wondering who would be the one to break the news. Donny timidly answered. "Well, it turns out he wasn't dead, and he got away before we could do anything." He hoped that his broken nose wouldn't be the target of his boss' fist.

Maroni was too exhausted and in too much pain to get angry. He just wanted his pain to dissipate, and he wanted to go home and go to sleep and put an end to this day from hell. He looked over at the doctor. "I need a drink."

Dr. Silvi shook his head. "First I need you to tell me if this hurts." He squeezed the bottom of Maroni's leg down near the ankle, watching the man's face. Maroni winced, but his reaction wasn't violent. He'd gotten lucky. "You've got two bullets in your leg, but neither of them appears to have shattered bone. I know it hurts like hell, but it's a lot better than it could have been. Let's get you to your office so I can see about getting at least one of those bullets out."

His men slowly helped him to his feet, and started to guide him out of the room, toward the main entrance through which the Batman had left. Pink Sarah registered this as a good sign, and released Wallace's sleeve. "Oh, thank goodness! It looks like he's going to be alright."

Wallace watched as the distance between him and Maroni grew. "Yeah, that's great news." He turned back toward Pink Sarah. "I parked in the side alley, so I'm just going to slip out that staircase right there," he nodded to the one behind her. "Thanks again so much for your help." He smiled again at her.

Pink Sarah returned the smile, but it faded quickly as she looked over Wallace's shoulder. He registered that something was wrong. Then he felt a force come down on his left shoulder from behind. Hard. Next there was a deafening shriek in his left ear. _"Hey, you fooking asshole!"_

He was spun around hard and his collar grabbed by the towering dominatrix he had seen earlier. She spat her words in his face. "I remember you from earlier! I saw you! You are the one who tuke my toys!"

 _Oh, shit._ He saw her hand draw back to hit him, and he winced. Not in anticipation of the humiliation of the imminent backhanding by an Amazonian dominatrix, nor for the pain that was surely to follow. Her screams were loud. Very loud. A volume that could draw the attention of everyone within earshot. Everyone, including—

"Hey Maroni!"

_For chrissakes, don't draw his attention this way!_

Wallace heard a resounding smack and saw stars as his head snapped to the side from the impact of Mistress Femke's hand. He tasted copper, and the inside of his mouth felt wet. As he tried to shake his head back into focus, he recognized that if she hadn't been holding him with her other hand, he'd have sailed a few feet back and landed on the floor from the force of her strike.

She yelled again. "Maroni! This is the one! This is the asshole who tuke my toys!" She kneed Wallace in the groin. He doubled over, and had a vague awareness of his body being dragged by the woman across the floor and dumped in front of a group of men. He registered several pairs of men's feet in his line of vision, one man carrying all weight on one leg while the other was suspended in favor above the floor.

Maroni's patience had run out. "Stand him up," he barked at his men. Tommy and Chaz roughly grabbed Wallace by the arms and brought him to his feet. The throbbing pain in the middle of his body actually tempered the fear he knew he should be feeling. Maroni jutted his jaw outward. "So you're the one who was here earlier to make the pick up on your…" the Mobster leaned forward, lowering his voice so that it was barely audible,"… _boss'_ orders. What brings you back to my club, uninvited?"

Wallace went white as a ghost. Pink Sarah had trailed over, following Femke with genuine concern for Wallace. "It's okay, Mr. Maroni, he just forgot something here earlier and needed to come pick it up." As soon as the words left her mouth she could see Wallace visibly tremble. Did this man think that Maroni thought he was here to steal something from the club? She wanted to clarify as quickly as she could, so he wouldn't be unfairly blamed. "He didn't take anything from us, Mr. Maroni, he just came back here because he left his phone."

Femke's head snapped around and she glared at Pink Sarah. "Yes he did! He tuke toys from me!"

Although Pink Sarah was afraid of Femke, she didn't think Femke would try anything with so many others around. She decided to answer her boldly. "Unless you saw him take your things yourself, I don't think that's fair to say." Femke opened her mouth to let a barrage of Dutch obscenities tumble out.

Maroni immediately dismissed the exchange transpiring between the women. He cocked his head as he looked at Wallace. What would make one of the Joker's men risk his own safety to sneak back into a Mob club to retrieve a phone? A smirk crossed Vinnie's face. "Something on that phone of particular value?" He looked at Chaz. "Search him."

Tommy wrenched Wallace's arms behind his back as Chaz went through his pockets. He pulled out the cell phone. Wallace shrieked in fear, his voice cracking. _"No! Give that back to me!"_

Chaz held the phone out to Maroni, who removed one of his arms from around Donny's shoulders for balance. He took the phone, and scoffed at Wallace. "So what's got your panties in a twist?" He pushed a few buttons on the phone and studied the screen. "Whoa!" He whistled at the gruesome photo of Sticks' head in the urinal. "That's quite a photo, there."

Wallace felt as though his heart would explode with fear out of his chest. There was another beep as Maroni advanced to the next photo. The amusement on his face faded.

"What is…" his voice trailed off. Maroni slowly brought the screen up to his face for a closer look.

Wallace could see it register in the Mobster's eyes.

Maroni's face went slack. Then his chest started to heave. His breathing became audible, and his fist shook with rage as he bellowed at the screen.

" _What the FUCK?!"_

* * *

_. . . . . . ._

Author's Notes for "Unraveling"

. . . . . . .

_Here's another bizarre coincidence: "Night on Bald Mountain" immediately came to mind as the song the Joker would be able to reproduce using the IQ answer sheet as makeshift sheet music, given the ominous melody and frenzied changes in pitch, which mirror his personality. I wasn't sure how to spell the composer's name, so I looked it up on Wikipedia. It turns out that the song was written as a witch's sabbath; a song celebrating the confluence of witchcraft forces. I didn't realize that when I picked it, but it sort of fits with the esoteric pagan knowledge the Joker has, as well as the fact that there is a Hunter's Moon/Blood Moon high in the sky as this takes place._

_-4oC 2009.01.18_


	33. Choices

*** CHOICES ***

**Chapter 33**

**. . . . . . .**

_I did well. I did well, I know it._ Barker nodded to himself in reassurance. The smell of the two pizzas filled the car, which made it smell a lot better than the stale cigarette and urine odor the stolen vehicle normally harbored.

_That turned out okay. I made everything turn out okay. I got the pizzas, and I got the alcohol. Mr. Joker trusts me to get him these things, because he knows that I'm special. He understands our connection._

Barker sat up straighter in his seat as he looked out the driver's side window across the harbor. The orange glow of a few distant fires burning was a signature of his boss' handiwork. _I know the man who did_ that. _I_ know _him. He knows_ my _name. He's the most powerful man in the city, and I get to bring him his food and drink._

Barker's head was spinning. He was starting to pass back into the delirium of idol worship, the closer he drew to the home base. All the events that had unfolded so far were turning in his head, and he couldn't believe how fortunate he was to be in the middle of it all.

He was clearly _chosen._

The smell of the warm food filled his nostrils, and his stomach rumbled. _I wonder if… I wonder if Mr. Joker would let me have some pizza? Maybe even eat_ with _him! It would be like eating ambrosia on Mt. Olympus!_ Barker thought of his earlier brush with the god that the Joker was, getting to lie on the floor in front of the woman, with his idol on the other side of her. He physically shuddered at the implication. If _she_ hadn't been there, he'd have been on the floor, with Mr. Joker, _alone._

The thoughts of what might yet happen as the night unfolded brought butterflies to his stomach.

 _Maybe, just maybe, I could—_ did he even dare to think it?

 _Maybe I could even_ touch _him! Even just on the arm…_ Barker wanted to consume the brilliance that the clown was, in any way that he could. He'd never dared to touch the deity. Others who had done so uninvited didn't seem to live long. Of course, that was understandable. A god like Mr. Joker needed to protect himself, and he couldn't have those who were _unworthy_ sapping from him his magnificent essence.

Barker's brow furrowed at the thought. There were so many human parasites who just wanted to take from Mr. Joker. But Barker would never take from him. He only wanted to give to him. And maybe, if Mr. Joker would let him, Barker could show his devotion with a demonstration. Even just a touch of his hand…

But first, Mr. Joker had to eat. He needed his strength, Barker reasoned, because he had a departure scheduled in the next few hours.

_______________________________

AJ reached up to lock the passenger side door of his friend's truck from the inside.

He also pulled his baseball cap's bill around from the back of his head to the front, to help obscure his face. The neighborhood they were coasting through was one he'd never been in before. In fact, he didn't even know this section of Gotham existed, despite its relative proximity to Spanky's Pizza Pies. It was clearly a drug-infested neighborhood, its gang members loitering with menace unabashedly on the street corners under broken streetlights. Sure, there were drugs in the government housing development where he lived in with his mom, her boyfriend and his two younger sisters… but it was nothing like this.

If the lights had been on inside the cab of the truck, the white of DJ's knuckles would have been visible as he clenched the steering wheel. He felt himself sink down further in his seat; at this point, he wasn't remotely worried about Barker spotting him with a glance in the rearview mirror. He was more worried about the unsavory types leaning up against the buildings who were eyeing them as they rolled down the street. He thought at first that people were staring at his truck because the headlights weren't on; then he reasoned that a neighborhood like this probably saw its share of darkened vehicles to facilitate anonymity. It started to dawn on him that a late-model pickup truck in this section of urban rot probably looked downright Dukes of Hazzard.

Funny, when they left the liquor store to trail Barker, _he_ had been the target. It was starting to feel like the shoe was on the other foot.

DJ pursed his lips as he kept his eyes trained on the black Civic in the far distance ahead of them. They were cruising through a grid that bordered the Narrows, yet somehow seemed even more threatening. The buildings were getting farther and farther apart, and he could tell they'd be approaching the water soon. He couldn't reconcile the seemingly harmless countenance of the strange little man they were following with the current surroundings; they were completely discordant, which meant that the man either was an actual mental patient who lacked the awareness to understand how dangerous the environment was… or he was traveling with confidence because he already associated with thugs.

Not with any thugs, _with the Joker_. DJ stiffened in his seat at the thought.

It had sparked genuine excitement in his gut when the little man first mentioned the Joker back in the restaurant; the thought of a chance brushing with Gotham's ultimate criminal was the pinnacle of what DJ could hope for in social cool, aside from meeting James Hetfield from Metallica. Soon reality set in, and DJ had reasoned that the Joker connection had to be fabricated, the projections of a delusional man idolizing a madman. When the wads of cash had come out of his pockets, trailing the weirdo seemed like a shrewd move, leading them to an easy score of money. The original mentioning of the Joker seemed just a far-fetched tall tale.

But now, with every abandoned building and gutted car they passed, there seemed to be waxing merit to their customer's original story.

The _possibility_ of a Joker connection was starting to look frighteningly like a _probability_.

In these darkened streets, a brush with the Joker no longer seemed cool. They had segued out of "cool" about fifteen city blocks back, when they crossed the figurative and actual border into "dangerous". When DJ had made the last left-hand turn, he'd put them on the literal path toward "death wish".

_What did that guy say about the Joker? Something about taking a man's skin off… chopping off some guy's head—_

DJ's thoughts were interrupted by AJ tagging his arm with the back of his hand. "There, he's turning in. Shit! He's getting out of the car!"

In a panic, DJ slowed the truck down to a crawl along what could almost pass as a curb. There were no cars behind them, so there was no danger of being hit by another motorist. Both boys leaned forward and watched as Barker took the pizzas out of the car and walked to the side of a dilapidated three-story row house on the end of a shady housing cluster, on the side closest to the water. Clearly, none of the other houses in the row were occupied. There likely weren't squatters or even or junkies inside. It would be too far away from the main strip where they got their fixes.

DJ inched the truck forward until they were in front of the first row house, on the opposite end of the complex from where Barker entered. He shut off the engine. Part of him screamed to turn the key in the ignition, fire the truck back up and drive like hell back the way they came, but he didn't want to look like a pussy in front of his younger friend. He was a nineteen year-old male with pride to uphold, after all.

AJ looked at him. "What do we do now?"

DJ's heart was pounding. Time to choose. He made efforts not to let his voice waiver and betray the calm he was trying to exude. They'd come this far, so he couldn't back down now. "Hand me the gun. We're just going to take a look. That's all."

AJ nodded, and opened the glove compartment.

_______________________________

Everyone wants to play in the majors.

It's an aspiration that few can achieve, but it doesn't stop smaller players from setting their aim high. If you don't have the talent to play with the big boys, you try to follow their play as closely as you can. Mimic them, study their moves. Emulate them. Imitation is, after all, the ultimate form of flattery.

The North Koreans employed this philosophy with the military-grade weapons they manufactured for black market distribution. They wanted to play in the majors, and trade in the big markets with the Americans. Americans, driven by a capitalistic marketing force, appeared to be all about brand recognition: the Nike swoop, the Apple icon; they responded to iconic brand symbolism. So when the North Koreans made their weapons for trade on the black market, they wanted their own unique stamp of recognition, something that tagged their hardware as their own. An icon, if you will, to catch the eyes of the bigger players.

As their unique trademark, they designed a small graphic consisting of a yellow circle filled with three turquoise stars. It could be found on every gun that came out of their underground factories. They considered it strategic marketing.

Gotham's Mafia considered it fodder for their jokes.

When Maroni's men got their hands on these guns for distribution to other crime organizations willing to pay, they had snickered at the signature stamp. Classic rookie mistake. Not only was it a rather stupid way to leave a breadcrumb trail back to North Korea should the ATF or FBI go on an international hunt, but frankly, it was a pussy-looking design. Not only were the colors ugly, but they were extremely eye-catching atop blackened metal, which contradicted the point of stealth weapons in close enemy quarters.

Maroni figured it wasn't his problem, it was Kruzynski's: once he bought the weapons, covering up that ugly graphic was the Belarussians' issue to address. So at the time of the transaction, none of Maroni's men had taken any measures to cover up the one-inch diameter brand mark.

And that was what precipitated Wallace's death.

Had the North Koreans chosen colors darker than turquoise and yellow, Wallace probably would have lived: it wasn't the rocket launcher in the photo that caught Maroni's eye, it was the North Korean brand stamp.

A photo of a thug holding a weapon, even one as large as a rocket launcher, wasn't anything that Maroni hadn't seen countless times before. After all, this was Gotham; in criminal circles, weapons were as necessary as oxygen. Maroni very well would have scrolled right past the photo on the cell phone, but it was a small patch of bright color on the lower side of the launcher's barrel that caught his eye. His heart skipped a beat and he'd brought the phone's screen up to his face for a closer inspection. When he enlarged the photo, he saw irrefutable evidence of the garish North Korean stamp.

No one else in Gotham traded with the North Koreans except the Mafia. No one.

The rocket launcher in the photo before him clearly was from the stash stolen before the deal was consummated with the Belarussians, sparking months of a bloody street war between his men, the Belarussians, and the Chinese Triad gangs they thought were responsible for the heist.

Maroni gripped the phone tighter as his anger grew. How many of his own men had he lost that night on the pier alone, when the gunfire had broken out? How many men had died in the months since that botched transaction? How many millions of dollars of business did he lose because he had to curtail activity thanks to the Gotham Police Department breathing down their necks? The dollar figure alone was staggering; incalculable, really.

The thug being held by his men before him right now was clearly the same man in the photo holding one of these stolen North Korean-made weapons. And the young man was in the Joker's employ.

Maroni's jaw clenched as he pieced it together: all this time, the Joker and his men had the stolen weapons.

Vinnie could feel his blood pressure spike with fury, and his heart started to pound. He didn't like people fucking with his business, and he didn't like being played for a fool. He was the _capofamiglia_ in Gotham. Heads would roll for this.

His eyes burned with rage and spittle flew from his mouth as he shouted at Wallace. "Did you hear what I said? _What!_ The _fuck!_ Is _THIS?"_ He turned the cell phone's screen around and held it in front of Wallace's face. Maroni's men leaned in to see what had enraged their boss. Wallace glanced at the photo briefly, recognizing himself with the rocket launcher, and he clamped his eyes shut. He started to shake uncontrollably.

"What's he holding?" Donny couldn't see from his angle.

"It looks like a rocket launcher." Chaz leaned in closer, and his eyes got wider. He looked at Maroni. "Is that one from the Bela—"

Maroni cut him off, "It was part of the _stolen_ inventory!" He didn't need any details leaking out while employees from Flesh For Fantasy were still in the room. Not blinking, he kept his eyes trained on Wallace. He raised his voice and bellowed: "Everyone has sixty seconds to get the _fuck_ out of this building! We are officially _closed, capice? Everybody out, NOW!"_

The remaining employees didn't have to be told twice. Nearly all of them knew Maroni was a Mafia man, and those who didn't know were frightened enough by his demeanor not to want to stick around. Everyone walked very quickly to the exits, still clad in their costumes, or lack thereof. Making a stop in the locker rooms for their street clothes was clearly not an option, though one of them had the courtesy of shutting the overhead music off. Even Mistress Femke felt trepidation, and could tell that something was going to happen that she'd best not be around for. She sharply turned her head and stomped off past Pink Sarah, who hovered like a satellite to the group of men. She was frozen with uncertainty.

Maroni wondered if he were on the brink of a heart attack. His heart wouldn't stop thumping, and he could swear his vision had gone red. As he looked at the trespasser in front of him, scenarios started to play out in his mind. This little fuck was going to take them back to the Joker. He really didn't care as much about the weapons at this point, as he did about finding the lunatic.

Maroni wanted to teach the clown-faced _freak_ a lesson. A very, very painful lesson.

There was another rattle in Maroni's chest on the left side. Then it dawned on him that it wasn't his heart palpatating, it was his private cell phone vibrating in the inside jacket pocket over his heart. He knew exactly who was trying to reach him, even before he pulled out the phone to view the caller ID, but a glance at the phone's face confirmed it: his wife. Maroni exhaled in annoyance. She was probably concerned because he hadn't come home yet. He wondered how long he'd been unconscious as a result of the electrical shock. He didn't have time to deal with her mother hen-like concern. He let the call go to voice mail, and pocketed the phone again.

Maroni pointed at Wallace. "You! You got a lotta fuckin' explaining to do about this photo. Spill it!"

Wallace opened his eyes looked at Maroni. He stammered, "I… I, I don't know w— what it is— what you m-mean."

Maroni smirked. "Really?" He shot a look at Chaz, and tipped his head in Wallace's direction. Chaz nodded his understanding, and threw a left hook at Wallace's face, shattering his cheek.

Pink Sarah screamed. "Why are you doing that to him?"

Maroni jerked his head around in annoyance. "Sweetheart, I'm only going to say this once more: get your ass out of this room _right now!"_ He turned back to Wallace. "I need to conduct a little _business_ with this asshole who works for the _Joker_."

Pink Sarah gasped. So did three of Maroni's men, and even Dr. Silvi looked Wallace up and down with a newfound sense of both awe and wariness. Pink Sarah felt like she'd been slapped in the face. He'd lied to her, lied right to her face about working for the Joker, and she'd believed him. Her concern graduated quickly to a feeling of betrayal.

She shot a hostile glance at Wallace. "I'm sorry, Mr. Maroni. I'll leave. Take all the time you _want_ with him." Pink Sarah sulked out of the room, and as Wallace looked up to see her leave, he wanted to scream out for her to stop. He wanted to. If he screamed, she might come back. At the very least she might tell _someone_ that he was there.

But he didn't scream for her, and she didn't stop. She didn't even look back.

All that was left in the room was Wallace, Maroni and his crew, and the very uncomfortable revelation that the Joker was behind the weapons heist.

Wallace felt his head swim. Would he be tossed out of a moving car, still alive once they'd finished with him, or would his dismembered body be carried out in bags to be tossed into the river?

Maroni continued with his questions. "Where'd those weapons come from, the ones in the photo?" Wallace shrugged his shoulders as best he could, with his arms pinned behind him. Maroni glared at him. "Those weapons in the photo were stolen, weren't they?"

Wallace looked off to the side and said nothing. Maroni nodded again at Chaz, who threw a roundhouse kick and connected squarely with Wallace's stomach. Wallace grunted in agony, and his eyes bulged. He pitched forward and started to retch, vomiting up bile and parts of his last meal onto the floor and onto his shirt, gasping for air.

Maroni's cell phone started to vibrate again. It was beginning to piss him off. He tried to ignore it, focusing on his interrogation. "Those weapons _were_ stolen, and they were _stolen_ during a transaction we had with the Belarussians _._ I recognize 'em. So here's a little tip for you, dumbfuck: the next time you take a photo of something stolen, make sure the identifying mark is hidden from the camera. _"_ Tommy and Chaz snickered. Dr. Silvi tensed, and took a step backward.

Maroni's voice quickly crescendoed. "Are you understanding what I'm getting at, fucker? Your boss, the _Joker,_ stole weapons and fucked up a deal that I brokered _._ I've got the proof right here." He shook the phone in Wallace's face. "As a result, my life has been a little… oh, I guess you could say, _uncomfortable_ ever since then. Do you think that I'm going to let something like that go unanswered?"

Wallace could hear the question, but it wasn't really connecting with him. The physical agony was overshadowing his ability to reason.

Maroni continued his tirade. "For months I've had the God damned Gotham Police all over my ass, the Belarussians gunning for me and my men, and millions in lost business transactions because your boss decided to get cute with his little plan to intercept goods that were none of his God damned business!" Maroni's men exchanged glances. They had never seen him so outraged before.

Vinnie smirked, looking off to the side. "I'm sure that Sergei Kruzynski would be very interested to know where his weapons are." He returned his gaze to the broken man before him.

Wallace longed for a bullet to his own temple.

The Italian exploded again. "I have fuckin' _had it_ with that God damned _clown_ stepping in the middle of my affairs whenever he wants to, and _fucking around with me!"_ Maroni's cell phone started to vibrate in his pocket again. _What the hell does that woman want?_

The side of Wallace's face was throbbing with pain, and he wondered if an internal organ had been ruptured by the kick. He felt his legs buckle and give out. His body started to slump, but Tommy tightened his grip on Wallace's arms behind his back, tossing his body up with a heave in momentum to get him up on his feet again.

"Where is he?" Maroni's bodyguards stiffened. They knew that if they did find the Joker, sheer numbers were on their side. Nonetheless, the unpredictability and fearlessness of the Joker scared them.

Maroni's voice could almost pass for calm as he asked again. "Where's the clown?"

Wallace struggled with rational thoughts. For as much agony as he was in – and surely more was to come – he couldn't say anything. He answered Maroni with a shake of his head.

"Oh, you don't know, eh? Really?" A nod in Chaz' direction, and with a sickening crack, Wallace's nose was broken. Brilliant white light exploded before his eyes, and warm blood flowed freely down his throat and windpipe, causing him to choke and sputter. He felt like he would drown in his own blood.

Maroni cleared his throat. "Where is he based? Tell us, and the pain will stop." He nodded in Dr. Silvi's direction. "I'll have my own private doctor stitch you up, good as new, and we'll let you go. Just tell us where he is."

Wallace made at attempt at speech. "I c—" he coughed on his own blood and droplets flew from his mouth. "I can't t-tell you!"

Maroni could see the fear in the man's eyes. It was a different kind of fear than he was used to seeing. Maroni was used to men cowering in front of him under threats of physical violence. But this man's fear wasn't coming from an aversion to the pain he was now enduring. He was clearly terrified of what was to come.

Not from Maroni's men, but from the Joker.

 _Maybe I can use that._ "You're afraid of him, aren't you?" Maroni nodded encouragingly at Wallace, who froze and looked the Mobster squarely in the face. "You're afraid of what he'll do to you if you tell us where he is." Wallace closed his eyes in a silent acknowledgment.

"I could pay you a very handsome amount of money if you tell me where the Joker is. Enough to get you out of Gotham and start a new life."

Wallace weakly shook his head. He coughed the words, "Find me," before he leaned forward to vomit up a mouthful of blood onto the floor.

"If you take us to him, we'll kill him before he can get to you. Believe me, when I get my hands on him, that clown won't have breath left in his body—"

Maroni's cell phone began vibrating once more. _Jesus Christ, this woman's got a hell of a sense of timing._

Keeping his eyes on Wallace to let the offer sink in, he gruffly reached for the phone and barked his annoyance. "What is it?"

In the cavernous quiet of the room, everyone could hear the wailing of a woman's voice on the other end of the phone, hysterically shrieking with grief.

_______________________________

"Head wounds sure do bleed a lot, don't they?" The Joker grinned back at Lois.

She barely heard him over Curtis' screams. Lois looked from the severed ear on the floor, to the side of Curtis' head, then up to the Joker's face. Her mouth was hanging open and she couldn't find any words for a response. What was there to say? She felt relief at not being the target of the Joker's wrath, at least for now, but part of her couldn't help but feel both revulsion at the sight before her and sympathy for the pain that Curtis must surely be suffering from.

The Joker walked over toward Lois, casually resting his left elbow on her right shoulder and motioned back at Curtis with the knife, feigning frustration. "As you can see, Sweet Tart, it isn't _easy_ trying to run your own organization-ah. Corporate cut-throats are everywhere. Which is why…" he brought the tip of the knife's blade toward her and tapped her clavicle with it. "… you've got to cut your compe _ti_ tion's throat before they cut _yours_." With a flick of the wrist he closed the blade, pocketed the knife, and took Lois by the chin like a child. "But I'm sure that as a Teee Veee re _por_ ter, you know all about, ah, nasty competition. Doncha, toots?"

He patted the side of her face twice, then turned around to look at Curtis, whose screams had ebbed. The Joker tucked his lower lip in and bit it, in an effort to suppress a giggle. He looked askance at Lois. "I can't resist." His Glasgow smile stretched wide across his face. "I gotta do it! You like cell phone commercials, Lo?"

She silently mouthed, "What?" It was more to herself than to him. _What did_ that _mean?_

He walked over to his discarded vest on the floor, and pulled out the cell phone he had used to call Lois with earlier. He flipped it open and pretended to make a call, making "beep" and "boop" noises in different tones with his mouth to simulate keys being punched. He walked up to Curtis, who looked up at him from his kneeling position.

"Tell me, Curtis," he nodded down at the floor, and Curtis followed the man's gaze until it rested on his own severed ear. The Joker stepped forward and placed his foot on top of the ear, leaning in for the punch line. "Can you hear me now?" Then he moved his foot away from the ear. "Can you hear me now?"

He threw his head back and howled with laughter. "Whoa ho _ho!_ Ha ha hee! Ho, ha!" He stepped forward again, this time putting weight into his step on the ear. "How 'bout now? Can you hear me now? Whoo hoo _hoo_!"

When he moved his foot again, there was a squishing sound, and just a splatter of blood remained. "Jeez, where'd your ear go, Curtis?" He looked at Curtis with a genuine expression of inquiry. "Hmm, maybe I can make it reappear." He raised the bottom of his shoe toward Curtis' crotch, and swiped his foot down across the man's thigh, scraping the ear off the bottom of his shoe. In a guttural tone that reminded Lois of Fozzy Bear from The Muppet Show, the Joker crowed, "Ta _daaaa!"_ The ear momentarily stuck to the front of Curtis' jeans, then tumbled down onto the floor again.

Lois was glad she hadn't eaten the crackers with sour cream and chives spread when she had the chance earlier. She would have heaved them up right there if she had. She brought the back of her hand up to her mouth and stifled a gag. "Oh my God!" She closed her eyes and drew her breath in through her nose.

The Joker looked back at her. "Don't feel sorry for _him,_ Sweet Tart." (smack) "He got him _self_ into this situation because he didn't listen to me." The Joker raised his eyebrows and looked down at Curtis. "Even when he had two good ears."

He walked over to his bag and pulled out the brass knuckles that he had used on Sticks earlier that evening at Rogue. He slipped them on over his right hand, keeping the gun in his left, and walked over toward Curtis. The fallen henchman shook his head, pleading. "No. No, please don't do it!"

The Joker stopped in front of him, and looked down at the brass knuckles. "What? You, ah, you _don't_ want me to hit you with these? Hmm?" Curtis shook his head, keeping his eyes on the Joker. The Joker shrugged his shoulders. "Well, okay then." He moved to turn back to the bag, then spun with alarming speed back toward Curtis and kicked him in the ribs on the left side of his body, just behind his left elbow. The man howled in pain. The Joker looked down at him and held his arms out in a question. "What? I said I wouldn't hit you with the brass knuckles, and I didn't."

He pulled them off and tossed them back over to the bag. There was no amusement in his face when he faced Curtis again. He licked his lips twice and then chewed the scar on the inside of his mouth on the right side. "What. Type. Of. Fun…" He stepped to the left, then back to the right. "…Could I. Have with you now?"

Lois moved back farther into the room to get away from the men, but the Joker chided her. "Ah ah _ah…._ where do you think _you're_ going?"

Before Lois could answer, there was a muffled crashing sound. It came from downstairs. A high-pitched scream followed, as did the taut shrieks of a man's voice. "No! You can't come in here! Get out of here!" There was a sound of glass breaking. "Mr. Joker won't allow it! Get out!" There was the sound of a scuffle, and some shouting; the voices were lower in register and overlapping. Multiple intruders.

The Joker paused to listen for a moment, then he spun and advanced on Lois rapidly, extending his right hand out to her. "C'mere." He took her firmly by the wrist. "You a righty or a lefty?"

She shook her head to process the question. "Um, a lefty, I guess."

"Good," he said, reaching for her left hand, the one he hadn't cut earlier. To her shock, he put the Glock 22 in the palm of her left hand. "You know how to fire one of these?" She nodded slowly, unable to speak. "Okay, listen: you're going to keep that gun on _him,"_ he nodded back in Curtis' direction, "until I get back." Then he leaned in close to her ear. "I don't need to re _mind_ you of what he's capable of with _women_ , do I?" Again, Lois shook her head.

The Joker looked her in the face from just inches away. His eyes darkened, and he brought his hand up and placed it around her throat. "And I _know_ you wouldn't dare shoot _me,_ would you?" He tightened his grip around her throat to emphasize his point.

Lois' eyes grew wide and she found her voice. "I won't."

"I know you won't. I'm placing my _trust_ in you, Loisssssss. You're my _girl,_ aren't ya?" He nodded and winked at her. "If anyone other than me comes back through that door, you shoot 'em, got it?" She nodded weakly.

The Joker spun on his heels, and with amazing agility and grace, ran to his bag and pulled out a weapon she couldn't see, not making a sound on the floor as he moved. He silently opened the door to The Room, stepped outside, and closed it. She couldn't even hear him move down the hall. All she could hear was the raspy breathing of the injured man before her.

The one she was supposed to aim the gun at. The rapist.

Curtis had the awareness that he was slipping into shock from the loss of blood from his ear and his cut wrist. He saw a discarded stained cloth over to his left, and he leaned over to retrieve it, applying pressure to the wound on his right wrist. He winced in pain, drawing his breath in through gritted teeth. He was in tremendous agony, and he knew that the Joker would find a way to extend it for as long as he wanted to.

He looked at Lois. She was his only shot at getting out. Hell, she was _their_ only shot at getting out. With the remaining reasoning he had left, he decided to give it everything he had.

"You know that he's not going to let you live, right?"

Lois didn't answer him. She just kept the gun aimed at him.

Curtis continued. "What he's put you through so far? It's nothin'." He gasped for air, his ribs having been fractured where the Joker kicked him. "Nothin' compared to what's comin'. No one who gets brought into this room comes out alive. No one. It's like a rule, or something. We've carried bodies out of here that were totally mutilated." He swallowed, blinked slowly, and shook his head. "You have no idea how _sick_ and completely _twisted_ the Joker is. He'll probably fuck you, make you bleed for a long, _long_ time and then finally cut you up. He'll make sure you feel _everything_."

It struck a familiar chord of terror in Lois, and icy fear coursed through her veins. Curtis was probably right. He was a thug and a rapist himself, but he was probably telling the truth. From what she'd seen so far, why would she have any reason to believe that the Joker _wouldn't_ do exactly what Curtis was saying?

Then again, she reasoned, Curtis was also a criminal. He could be lying through his teeth. But when she thought of the copious bloodstains in the bathroom, she again had to side with the fact that Curtis was probably telling the truth. She had been kidnapped by a sadist who had her trapped, and would inflict pain on her for his own amusement. He already had.

Curtis nodded over toward the window. "If you tried to escape out the window, right now, he'd get you. Even if you made it down the road, he'd find you. You have no idea where you are. You don't have a vehicle, you don't have a phone, you don't have anything. You can't get away, and as long as you're here, you're dead. We _both_ are."

He was verbalizing every thought that had run through her mind since the night of terror had begun.

The injured man pitched a little in balance, and made the effort to get up off his knees. She stiffened her arms and held the gun out in front of her. "Don't," she warned. The idea of not following the Joker's orders terrified her.

"Lady, what am I gonna do to you, huh?" He held up his cradled right arm. "My good hand is useless, you've got my only weapon, and I think he cracked some of my ribs." He was starting to become giddy from the loss of blood. "Oh, yeah. And did you notice that I'm missing one of my God damned _ears?"_ He actually started to laugh.

Lois could see that he had a point. He was a hulking man, but he was clearly disabled and didn't appear to be a threat to her physically.

He swallowed and looked at her. "If you stay here, he'll kill you. And you'll _suffer_. He'll make sure of it." He took a step toward her. "But if we work together, we've got a shot. I know where we are in this shit hole of a city, you don't. I know where the keys are to the cars, you don't. I know the fastest escape route out of Gotham, you don't." He nodded in her direction. "But what I don't have is the upper hand on the Joker." He leaned forward and eyed the gun to emphasize her only advantage in the situation. "You _do."_

Lois' heart rate accelerated dramatically. He was right. Alone, she couldn't possibly get away from the Joker. She had to have help, and Curtis had already demonstrated his willingness to want to kill the Joker. There was no way he could repair _that_ burned bridge.

"Lady," Curtis exhaled with resignation, "you'd be doing society a favor if you killed him. They can't keep him locked up, he's too smart for that. They don't seem to be able to catch him without help from the Batman, so he's just going to keep killing people. You have no idea how many people he's killed so far tonight alone, and how many more are going to die."

Lois felt her stomach roil, the guilt overtaking her. Curtis took another step toward her. "If you shoot him, you won't go to prison. Hell, you won't even be prosecuted. Mayor Garcia will probably give you the fuckin' key to the city, if anything. And if you don't shoot him…" Curtis raised his good hand up to his face.

She drew her breath in sharply when she saw what he was mimicking.

With his index finger, Curtis traced lines on his own face, from the corners of his mouth back to his ears.

_The Joker's scars._

"He'll carve you up. _He'll_ _carve you up._ It's what he does." Curtis shook his head. "And for what your TV show broadcast about him earlier," he cleared his throat, "he'll carve you up _all over_ as payback _._ You're gonna bleed, lady. He'll make sure you scream. It's what gets him off. _"_

He took another step toward her. "You may not like me, but you need me. It's all in your hands. Do we live or die?"

Lois started to shake all over. Betray the trust of the Joker and attempt escape with a criminal, or stay and hope to God that someone rescued her before she was killed? Both choices seemed like a death sentence. Which one had the greater probability of success? There wasn't time to weigh the options. She had to make the decision. The fighter in her spoke up.

"Okay. How are we going to do this?"

_______________________________

. . . . . . .

Author's Notes for "Choices"

. . . . . . .

_For everyone reading outside the US, there was a series of cell phone commercials for Verizon that had a run on TV for a long time, showing a man on a cell phone popping up in the most obscure of locations, asking someone on the other end of the line, "Can you hear me now?" The Joker was making a play on that commercial with Curtis' ear._

_DJ made a bad choice not to turn the truck around and leave. Wallace made a bad choice not to plead for Pink Sarah's help, because she may have actually done something, as she seemed to have a soft spot for him. And Lois' choice at the end..._

_...well, you can probably guess how well_ that _one's going to turn out..._

_-4ofCups, 2009.01.20_


	34. Reckoning

*** RECKONING ***

**Chapter 34**

**. . . . . . .**

The Batman stood without a trace of emotion on his face, and made no detectable movement.

Jones caught glimpses of him through bleary eyes as he wept unabashedly, and he was reminded of the unsettling wax figures from Madame Tussauds. This caped figure was ominous. Though his allegiance to justice was evident, there was a darker and more threatening air about him than most of the criminals in Gotham. The public had a fleeting sense of this from the scarce video footage that had been captured of him, shown on TV and posted on the Internet, but video footage couldn't translate the aura that he projected. It was an aura that said, _Don't Fuck With Me._

The dark figure's overpowering presence made Jones' recovery from his crying jag all the more difficult, as the cowering manifested in more tears. A sense of relief was also mixed into the emotional outpouring, as Jones harbored the hope that the man's powerful projection of dominance could translate into the Batman's rescuing him from the ranks of the Joker's henchmen. Certainly the police couldn't help him, and walking away voluntarily from the Joker was as good as handing the maniac a butcher's knife.

The Batman looked down at the weary thug, waiting for the wave of fear to ebb. It was a reaction that he had seen before, and it was a hopeful sign; generally, a man who broke down with this degree of emotion had no fight left in him, which made his job a hell of a lot easier. It also indicated a man who saw the defeat in his own situation and was ready to talk or cut a deal.

Jones could feel the emotions start to wane, and he found his voice. "Please, pl—please, you've got to help me." He shook his head. "I can't take this anymore." He was struggling to catch his breath.

The dark figure crossed his arms and narrowed his eyes. He was starting to recognize Jones from inside Flesh For Fantasy as the man who'd been standing on the far side of the room, but didn't appear to be one of Maroni's. He nodded in the direction of the building. "Do you work for Maroni?"

Jones smirked and choked out an overcompensating laugh. "Are you kidding? The _Mafia_?" He brushed the last of his tears away with the sleeve of his jacket. "Man, I'd consider working for the Mafia a step up to better and safer things."

 _Safer?_ The Batman felt anticipation well in his chest at this revelation, and his mind started to piece things together quickly. There were few circles in Gotham where one could work that would be more dangerous than working for the Mafia. The man before him was Caucasian, so that immediately ruled out his association with the Chinese Triad gangs, who closely kept to their own. The man also didn't have a Belarussian accent; pure Gotham, born and raised, so he likely had no connection to Kruzynski's men.

There was only one viable possibility left.

The image of the garishly carved up face appeared in his mind's eye, as did the clown's libertine behavior as he had made lewd advances toward Lois Lane in the second video sent to the GPD.

The Batman honed his focus, brushing the image from his mind. His pulse quickened. If his instincts were right, this was the first break he'd gotten all night in finding a connection to the Joker, and by extension, to Lois. He'd have to be careful how he pressed this man in front of him, to make sure he didn't scare him off before he could get more information. "What do you mean by 'safer'? Who could be more dangerous to work for than the Mafia?" _Say it. Say that bastard's name. Be the lead that I need to find her._

"If I told you who I—" Jones abruptly stopped when he heard the sound of multiple voices coming from the side door of Flesh For Fantasy. The Batman silently cursed the interruption, as he watched Jones stiffen with paranoia. Clearly, the fear that Jones felt at the prospect of being discovered divulging information to him was enough to stop his confession mid-sentence. He followed Jones' eyes to see what had disrupted their exchange.

A stream of people – most of them scantily clad in suggestive outfits – manifested before their eyes, rushing out of the building into the alley. None of them took notice of the Batman or Jones. All seemed to be preoccupied with making as fast a departure as possible.

Keeping the man in front of him in his peripheral vision, the Batman turned to listen for any stray bits of conversation wafting their way off the alley walls. What he did hear caused him to go on the alert, phrases like, "he's Mafia, of course" and "that guy's dead, for sure". Clearly Maroni was up to something in his club, and it was frightening enough to send people running in droves out into the October night without their street clothes.

He turned back toward the older man, taking pains not to let his gravelly voice slip too far into its menacing range; he didn't need this witness running scared because of unchecked intimidation on his part. "What's your name?"

Jones swallowed. "Jones?" He frowned in self-contempt. _Jesus, I don't even have the balls to say my own name._

"Jones," the Batman nodded in the direction of the building, "what's going on in there that would send everyone out here in alarm?"

Jones shrugged his shoulders. "I don't know. Like I said, I don't work for Maroni."

The Batman pressed the lead again. "Did something just happen inside that relates to the man you _do_ work for?"

Jones' face went slack. He had completely forgotten about Wallace, leaving him inside to retrieve the lost cell phone with photographic evidence of their tie to the Joker.

He could feel his palms start to sweat. _Oh, shit. Did Wallace make it out with the others? Did he find the phone?_ The last interaction he'd had with Wallace was when his cohort had asked him to watch out for anyone walking into the women's locker room, so he could hunt around inside for his cell phone. That was about the time when the Batman had made his appearance, and Jones couldn't focus on anything else since then.

 _Jesus, what if Wallace got caught? What if they found his phone before he got it back?_ Jones felt dizzy. _Oh my God, what if everyone left because Maroni caught Wallace, pieced the Joker connection together, and decided to dish out punishment?_

Leaning to the side, the caped figure put himself in Jones' line of vision. "What is it?"

Jones swallowed, and motioned to the building. "It's my fr—friend." Could he call Wallace a friend? Were they friends, or were they simply associates by default, two men caught in the unfortunate circumstance of being in the Joker's employ? Jones shook the question from his mind, deciding to split hairs over semantics later. "I think my friend is still inside. And… and I think he could be in serious trouble."

The Batman narrowed his eyes, as he registered this new sense of fear on the man's face. "Trouble with Maroni?"

Jones nodded, "Yeah. Big trouble."

The Batman stepped forward and leaned down to look Jones squarely in the face. "Why?"

"Because Maroni may have found out who we work for." Jones didn't want to say the name aloud, as if speaking the name would invoke the madman to materialize out of the ethers like a supernatural demon. It wasn't the first time Jones had questioned if the Joker were merely human or something else entirely.

Losing patience with Jones sidestepping the questions, the Batman seized the front of Jones' collar. _"Who do you work for?"_

Jones' face drained of color, as he slowly blinked, and made the inevitable confession: "The Joker."

The Batman froze at the sound of the name, feeling both victory and dread. His suspicions were confirmed, but regretfully so. Gripped by anger, he clenched his jaw and spoke slowly. "You work for the _Joker,"_ he nearly spat the word at Jones. As abruptly as he had grabbed Jones, he released him roughly. Jones assumed the action was a manifestation of the Batman's contempt for Jones' association with the vilest criminal in the city. The Batman had actually released Jones to ensure that he didn't inadvertently hurt him as he thought of the pain he wanted to inflict on the clown.

The Batman pressed on: "Organized crime in Gotham fears him. They're afraid to provoke him or retaliate again him. What would make Maroni even consider harming your friend, if they discovered he was associated with the Joker?" His voice came out gruffer than he had intended, as the power of his rage surpassed his ability to maintain an even timbre.

The menace in his tone was not lost on Jones, who took a step backward in fear. _Oh, shit. Big mistake._ Big. _What were you thinking? You can't tell him about your involvement with the weapons heist! If you do, he's not going to give a damn about helping you escape from the Joker. He'll just turn you over to the GPD, and you're totally fucked. If the Belarussians and the Mafia don't get to you in jail, the Joker will. You won't even live long enough to make the arraignment._

Jones clammed up fast. "Nothing. Nothing, forget it. I shouldn't be talking to you, this was a mistake." He turned to run, but a large hand clamped the back of his neck and tightened like a vice. Jones felt himself being pulled back with force and spun, and he was face to face with the masked man.

The Batman leaned in. "I meant what I said up there earlier." He nodded toward the building. "I am not here to harm anyone who has information about the Joker. There are no penalties." He exhaled slowly; it pained him to say the next words. "Not even if you _work_ for him." Under different circumstances, the Batman would have delivered a fair number of blows to anyone who would willingly participate in the Joker's schemes, but at this moment, he was in a precarious situation. Time was not on his side, and he couldn't afford to mete out the justice that was merited. "What did you come out here to tell me?"

Jones' lips started to tremble, then his confession came tumbling out. "I can't do it anymore, man. I can't take it! The guy's fuckin' crazy! I don't know what Arkham did to him, but he's worse now than he was before he went in. I've seen him change. His moods are… I dunno, _darker_. He's more violent than he was before. Much more. I…" Tears welled in Jones' eyes again. "I don't know how to get away! No one can get away from the Joker. Everyone ends up dead. If I go to the police, they can't protect me. He'll find me, and he'll…" Jones shook his head, "he'll make it _hurt."_

As he stood looking at Jones, he felt himself become almost disconnected with alarm. Jones confirmed his suspicions that the Joker was not the same man he'd apprehended a year ago; he was something even more dangerous. Everything transpiring around Gotham certainly validated that his thirst for violence had grown. The videos alone were almost unwatchable for their disturbing content.

The Batman made the effort not to let his face betray him. As disquieting as this revelation about the Joker's deteriorating psyche was, finding someone who worked for the Joker was the first glimmer of hope he'd come across all damned night. "When was the last time you saw the Joker?"

Jones looked off to the side. "Tonight," he nodded, "probably around ten. Maybe ten fifteen."

 _That was only a few hours ago._ "A woman went missing earlier tonight from Metropolis. She's a reporter—"

"Lois Lane, I know." Jones' voice was flat, but his eyes were remorseful. "He's got her, I saw her myself. She's…" He didn't want to finish the thought aloud.

The Batman clamped his hands tightly on Jones' shoulders. "She's _what?"_

He looked up with shame. "If she's still alive, she's in for the worst night of her life. He has… he has _plans_ for her." Jones looked down at the ground to the right of his feet. "And his intentions aren't exactly what you'd call 'honorable'."

The Batman clenched his jaw. There was no such thing as "honor" with the Joker.

Jones continued, "My friend was here earlier tonight to pick up one of… _those_ girls' outfits," he motioned to Flesh For Fantasy with his hand, "for… uh, for the reporter to wear." Jones felt disgusted even saying it, feeling like some back-alley pimp. "We came back because he left his cell phone somewhere in the building, and it had some sensitive… some sensitive information in it. Stuff that would lead back to the Joker."

Contempt mixed with rage as the Batman processed Jones' words. _So the Joker has sunk from anarchic terrorism to sexually humiliating women._ He knew that if the Joker pursued that venture with the same enthusiasm he employed for chaos, Lois was in for even more horror than he had originally anticipated. "I need you to give me an address. Where can I find the Joker right now?" _There may still be a chance I can save her._

Jones chuckled and shook his head. "I can't give you an address. There aren't any building numbers and it's on a street without a name."

The Batman leaned forward. "Then you're just going to have to show me yourself."

Before Jones could protest, he was silenced by the hardened expression on the larger man's face as he spoke. "But first, we need to get to your friend before Maroni does."

________________________________

"Diana… Di—" Maroni furrowed his brow and winced as his ear was assaulted by the high decibel-level shrieking coming from his wife through the cell phone. "Would you just slow—slow down and stop… what hap-?" He hopped on his one good foot to readjust himself, leaning on Donny for support "Stop screaming! S—stop your yell—oh for chris _sake_ s, woman!"

Her screaming ebbed into sobs, which were still audible to the other men in the room, Wallace included. The pain from his broken nose and fractured face had all but pushed his cognizance of other goings on to the boundaries of his awareness, but he was still present enough in his faculties to appreciate whatever reprieve he could get. He welcomed the brief distraction by the phone call.

The woman's voice started up again, clearly very distraught. Maroni's face was drawn tight with concentration, as he focused on the words being choked and hiccupped through sharp breaths from his wife.

Then, there was a single shake of his head.

"What?" Maroni's face went slack. Next came more head shaking with vehement denial. "No! _No!_ What do you mean, _dead?!"_

The booming voice made Dr. Silvi visibly shudder, and Maroni's men leaned in, fixing their stares on his face. They were riveted by his reaction, holding their breath as much for themselves as for their boss. Any news of a death coming through his private line was _bad._ It had to be family, and Maroni – for all his philandering – still considered himself a family man, and was extremely protective of them. It was the law of the land in the Mob.

"Oh Jesus, no." Maroni's voice cracked, and his eyes moistened. "No, _not_ Tessa. _Not_ my little girl! She— oh my God…"

The men in the room exchanged glances. They nervously looked away in deference, eying the floor and shaking their heads at one another. Most of them suspected this day would come; Maroni's anorexic daughter was thin as a reed and couldn't weigh more than 90 pounds, if even that, and was bound to die sooner or later as a consequence of precarious health.

Maroni's face was a mask of grief, and his voice fell to nearly that of a whisper. "What happened to her?" The electronic chirping of a female voice through a cell phone was all that was audible in the room, as Vinnie listened to his wife recount what had happened in their driveway. Dr. Silvi wondered if the girl had dropped dead from heart failure while on one of her bouts of manic exercising. Tommy bet that she'd puked her own intestines up in a bathroom somewhere, or maybe just ended her misery by downing a bottle of sleeping pills.

Maroni bellowed in rage. _"What?! They did_ what _to her?!_ " Donny winced in pain, as his boss tightened his grip on his shoulder with fury. "Jesus fucking Christ! Those God damned animals! Fucking God damned _animals!"_ His face turned purple and his eyes were bulging.

Every bodyguard in Maroni's service felt their heart skip a beat, as the understanding distilled that someone had killed the only daughter of the _capofamiglia_ in Gotham.

"Belarussians? You're sure he said, 'Belarussians'? What did he look like?" He let go of Donny's shoulder and brought the back of his hand up to wipe at his eyes. "Uh huh. Yeah. He said that? Mother fucker. Mother _fucker!_ Don't say anything about that when the cops show up. Don't say _anything_ to _anyone_ until I get there, okay? I'll be there as soon as I can. Yeah. Listen to me, honey: they'll pay for this. I'll make sure they pay. I promise." Maroni snapped the phone closed and stared at it. "I fuckin' _promise_ they'll pay for this."

He sniffed loudly, and wiped at his face again, then scoffed. His chest was heaving. "Kruzynski. Kruzynski and his men." He was trying to speak between gasps for air. "They killed. My daughter. My _daughter!"_ His voice cracked again, and his men stared at him, mouths agape. "They used… Molotov cocktails. Threw them into her car. When she pulled into the driveway." Dr. Silvi drew his breath in sharply in disbelief, and Chaz crossed himself, shaking his head.

Maroni continued, "Those fuckers _burned_ her. Burned my little girl _alive_!" He looked skyward, as if for an explanation. "Jesus _Christ!"_

No one said a word. A painful silence stretched on, until Maroni cleaved it with his words. "Kruzynski shouted at Diana. At _my wife_. As my daughter was… _burning..._ " He visibly clenched his teeth. "Said it was for being double-crossed. Over the weapons." His knuckles were white as he clenched his own cell phone in his right hand, and Wallace's in his left. "Over those mother fucking weapons! Said that _he_ had lost family, so it was _my_ turn to lose family…"

Some of the words that Maroni spoke were penetrating the mental fugue Wallace was mired in. His thoughts swam as he fought to form coherent thoughts. Something told him that the call tied back to him.

Maroni shook his head, shock taking hold. His men were stunned by this revelation. The last person to kill a family member of Gotham's Mafia – who wasn't wearing a bat suit – ended up in the back room of a warehouse with jumper cables clamped to his testicles, brutally tortured to death before his body was dismembered and mixed into the cement foundation where Rogue was built.

"My daughter…" Maroni sounded distant. " _My_ daughter. That bottom-feeding, son of a bitch thinks he can kill someone… _kill_ someone… in _my_ family – _my daughter_ – and get away with it?!" He looked down at his cell phone again, as if wondering if the call had been real or a nightmare. "He killed my daughter. He killed my daughter," he shook his head in disbelief, "because he wants his weapons."

That snapped Wallace back into awareness, and the revelation was ugly. _Oh. Jesus. Christ._

Maroni shook his head, and out of disconnected grief, started to laugh. "This was about those God damned weapons… and I don't even have them." He looked his men in their faces for the first time. "We never crossed Kruzynski, but he killed my daughter anyway."

Wallace fought the urge to choke on his own blood, but the gag was reflexive and he couldn't stifle it. His cough drew Maroni's attention to him. Maroni actually blinked and shook his head a few times, as if trying to remember who the interloper in front of him was and what he was doing there. He looked down at the cell phone with the photo of the Joker's thug holding a stolen rocket launcher, and he found his bearings. Wallace watched as the Mobster's eyes went from a blank question to a clear registration of fury.

"You." Maroni's voice was still. Almost quiet. "You filthy son of a whore." He leaned forward, and Donny helped Maroni to close the distance. "You helped steal those weapons. You helped _the Joker_ steal those weapons."

The room became dead silent.

"And now my daughter is dead because of it."

No one spoke a word. Wallace felt the weight of all eyes in the room upon him, the silence of their accusing looks crushing any hope he had of surviving.

Wallace gave Maroni a look of supplication. It failed.

"God damn you." Maroni reached for the gun Donny kept strapped to his belt. Tommy saw what was coming, released Wallace's arms from behind, and stepped to the side. Wallace was left to stand alone against Maroni's fury. " _God DAMN you!"_ Maroni brought the gun up and aimed it at Wallace's head at close range.

In his last fleeting moment of consciousness, Wallace said an unspoken prayer of thanks; thanks that a gun was being drawn on him instead of a carving knife, thanks for his being in the Mobster's immediate proximity to capitalize on a moment of rash reactive action instead of meticulous drawn-out calculation, and thanks that his agony was about to end at the hands of the Mafia, instead of a sadistic man with a painted face and a fearsome Chelsea grin.

As the first round pierced Wallace's skull above his left eye, the final thought that passed through his mind was that his death could have been a lot worse, and a lot slower.

The second bullet exploded the right side of his skull at the temple, and the third bullet was shot directly into his mouth, shattering his upper front teeth, grazing the soft palate and lodging itself in the base of his cranium. Chaz involuntarily jerked backward as shards of Wallace's teeth radiated outward, showering his face.

Wallace's body slumped backward. He was dead before he hit the floor, but that didn't stop Maroni from emptying the rest of the gun's magazine into the man's chest. Then he released his steadying hold on Donny, allowed himself to fall forward onto the floor, and clawed his way toward Wallace's body. The tears were flowing again, hot with vengeance, as he pulled a switchblade from his jacket pocket and stabbed with unchecked rage. It didn't matter that Wallace was already dead; Maroni knew this, and pierced the body repeatedly anyway.

None of his bodyguards made a movement to stop him. They watched silently as Maroni thrust in the knife again and again and again, bellowing unintelligible words and purging his grief over his daughter's murder. After several moments of stabbing Wallace's lifeless body, Maroni's breathing became labored, and he had nearly exhausted himself. He dropped the knife on the floor, and rolled over onto his back, chest heaving.

Chaz looked warily at his colleagues, then approached Maroni with Dr. Silvi. Both men bent down slowly, and Chaz cleared his throat. "Sir? Mr. Maroni, what can we do to help you?"

Vinnie felt dizzy. He stared up at the ceiling, detachedly noting that it was almost the same view he had when he'd been awakened from the electric shock from the Batman's cowl. He wondered if that had happened today. Could it have been last week? Time seemed to lose its tangibility. He couldn't process that this wasn't a nightmare. How could this be happening? His daughter had been savagely murdered because the Joker had intercepted the weapons intended for the Belarussians. For all the corruption that defined his life, Tessa was the only innocent person left in it. But now she was gone, suffering for something she had no part of.

_She's dead, because the Joker had to have his fun. The Joker._

When Maroni spoke again, his voice was raspy. "Ten. Put the word out on the street that I'll pay ten to anyone who brings the Joker to me alive. _Alive._ "

Chaz asked for clarification. "Ten?"

Maroni slowly closed his eyes. "Ten _million._ And I don't want to wait. I want to see that fuckin' freak on his knees in front of me before dawn." He opened his eyes and looked up at Chaz. "Go. Get the word out. I'll pay anyone who can catch him. Anyone." The corner of his mouth turned up in a hint of a sarcastic smile, but his eyes remained sad.

"Anyone except the Belarussians."

Sergei Kruzynski would have his day, Maroni would make sure of that, but Kruzynski would have to wait.

The Joker came first.

________________________________

Barker's heart was racing. It all happened so fast that it didn't seem real. Somehow, those same boys who had sold him pizza were now _inside._ No one from the outside came into this house uninvited. Mr. Joker didn't like surprise visitors.

He tried to grab onto the younger boy's sleeve, to pull him toward the door, but the teenager was too strong for him. AJ yanked his arm free from Barker's grip, shoving him hard. The smaller man stumbled backward, falling into the edge of the kitchen counter top with his back. Before he could straighten up again, AJ punched him hard in the sternum, winding him. Barker dropped to his hands and knees, eyes bulging, gasping for air. DJ was standing back from the fray, arm extended and gun aimed at Barker's head.

As he coughed and fought back tears that stung his eyes, Barker tried to piece together how the boys had suddenly appeared behind him in the kitchen. He hadn't seen anyone follow him back. _But were you even looking?_ To his great horror, he realized that he _hadn't_ been checking to see if he were being followed. He'd broken one of Mr. Joker's cardinal rules, because he'd been so enthralled with the fires in the distance, and thoughts of Mr. Joker himself. He cursed himself silently, crushed with self-reproach for having failed to protect the Joker's secrecy. Mr. Joker was counting on him, and he'd failed.

DJ looked around the darkened first floor with anxious eyes, first through the open door to what would have been the dining room, then to the opening to what could have passed for a living room. "So, where's the rest of the money? Huh? We know you've got more than what you brought with you tonight." DJ saw no trace of movement or evidence that anyone else was in the house aside from the three of them.

Barker shook his head. "I'm not telling you! It's not your money, it's _his,_ and you can't take it!"

"Oh, yeah?" DJ felt himself grow bolder. " _His_ money?" He scoffed. "So where is he? If he's so hungry for those damned anchovy pizzas, why hasn't he showed up yet?" He kicked the broken bottle of Captain Morgan's Rum at Barker's leg, driving a sharp edge into his shin, gouging him.

Barker cried out in pain, grasping his leg. "Get out of here, now! You can't be here!"

AJ looked at his friend. "What a fuckin' liar. He doesn't work for the Joker. He's just some pussy who was probably thrown out by his parents, who pretends to be all gangster an' shit. He's nothing."

DJ nodded. "You said it, man." He leaned forward and spat on Barker, hitting him on the shoulder. "You're nothing, you piece of shit. Nothing." DJ waved the gun toward the cupboards, looking at his friend. "Open 'em up and see if you find anything."

AJ opened the cupboards and found several opened boxes of stale snack food and canned food bulging at the ends. He pulled out a red box and shook it, laughing as the contents rustled inside. "Dude, check it out." Grinning, AJ held out a box of Lucky Charms. "I guess _the Joker_ likes kids' cereal," AJ mocked, setting the box on the counter. DJ laughed at the ridiculous mental image AJ suggested of the clown sitting down to a bowl of sugary cereal. DJ shook his head, wondering how they ever could have been duped into thinking the cowering man on the floor had any ties to the most frightening psychopath in Gotham.

Barker leaned forward and pressed his forehead to the dirty kitchen linoleum floor, trying to obscure his face from the boys. He didn't want truants younger that he was to see him crying. It was bad enough being tormented by Curtis on a daily basis, but to be laughed at and assaulted by teenagers was unbearable. Almost as awful as having failed Mr. Joker. He choked out his words. "You've got to g—get out of here. N—now!"

DJ smirked and shook his head, starting to open drawers while AJ looked in the pantry.

Barker pleaded with them, his face still pressed against the floor. "You're going to be in so much trouble for this!"

DJ and AJ stopped searching and looked at each other. Both burst into laughter at the same time. DJ slapped his leg, while AJ walked back toward Barker. "Ooooh, we're _scared,"_ he mocked. He used his foot to lift Barker up by the shoulder, then he drove his heel into Barker's upper arm with force, shoving him backward into a stack of kitchen drawers. Even in the darkened room, the wet streaks on Barker's face were visible. AJ grinned. "What's wrong, you pussy? Why are you crying?" He looked triumphantly back at his older friend.

DJ was enjoying their position of power. "I think he's scared because we're going to take all his pizza and daiquiri money, and he'll have to eat Lucky Charms for dinner again. It's what Leprechauns like him eat."

AJ guffawed at the image. "You like eating cereal with pink marshmallows? Huh, you faggot?" He kicked Barker's knee with force.

Barker shrieked, and grabbed his knee. "Stop it! Leave me alone! You've got to leave!"

"Why should we when we're having so much fun?" DJ started to twirl the gun around on his finger with cavalier brass.

Barker was trying unsuccessfully not to break into hysterics. "You've got to get out! Or else!"

"Oh yeah?" AJ smiled down at him and crossed his arms. "Or else what?"

" _Or else you're gonna piss me off."_

Both boys gasped and spun toward the sound of a tinny voice that came from the entryway to the living room. The doorframe was empty. DJ felt his heart rate accelerate, and he started to shake.

AJ's voice cracked. "Shit! Who said that?"

Barker looked up at DJ. "I _told_ you."

As he held the gun pointed at Barker, he could see his trigger hand shake. He couldn't steady it. Just beyond the shaking barrel of the gun, he slowly registered that the little man's expression had changed. He wasn't cowering in fear anymore. He was smiling. Broadly.

And he was looking right at DJ. "You boys are in trouble. You should have left when I told you to."

DJ felt his blood run cold, and he fought to control his shaking outstretched arm, his mind racing for something to yell to put the man back into a state of acquiescence. DJ spat his words at him through teeth clenched in fear. "Shut up, faggot!" It was the best he could come up with under duress. Before he could steady himself, he saw the blur of a hand arc around from the right and swipe the gun cleanly from his hand, while something cold and sharp materialized at his jugular on the left side of his neck. A body pressed up against him from behind, and he felt warm breath in his ear.

"Now that's. Just. Rude."

The smell of greasepaint, unwashed hair and rotten breath filled DJ's nostrils. He looked pleadingly at AJ's face. His friend had blanched, his eyes wide and mouth hanging open. DJ heard the gun cock and watched as AJ stiffened up and lifted his arms in the air in a show of surrender. AJ's eyes darted frantically from DJ's face to the gun that was trained on him. He started to whimper. "It's _him_! Aw, fuck, man! It's really _him_!"

DJ felt his knees buckle, and he fought to keep himself steady at the realization that the blade at his throat was wielded by a man known for taking delight in carving people up.

"Well, _boyzzzz_ ," (smack) "let's have ourselves a little talk about good manners and etiquette when you're guests in someone else's house, shall we?" The Joker waved the gun at AJ. "You can, ah, star _t_ by putting my Lucky Charms back in the cupboard." AJ nodded his willing acquiescence, and put the cereal back.

The Joker narrowed his eyes. "And my pizza? Where's my pizza with fishies?" AJ pointed wordlessly to the two boxes sitting unopened on a dirty kitchen table. It was about the only thing in the room not overturned by the fracas. The Joker nodded, and felt his stomach growl. He licked his lips in anticipation of the overdue meal. "And where's my booze?"

AJ swallowed, and reluctantly pointed at the overturned bag of liquor. A puddle had formed, curling the brown paper bag. Large shards of glass lay strewn across the floor.

A frown marred the clown's face. "I sincerely hope-ah, that the Jaegermeister is still intact." He swiped his tongue over the right side of his lips, touching the scar. "Well? Is it- _ah_?" He motioned toward the bag on the floor, and AJ slowly moved toward the bag and bent down to look inside. DJ watched as his friend's expression changed, lips pursed and tears welling in his eyes. He looked back up at the Joker.

The Joker exhaled dramatically.

Barker lifted his hands instinctively to cover his own ears.

A deafening blast filled the kitchen as the Joker discharged the gun aimed at the boy.

________________________________

* * * * * * *

Author's Notes for "Reckoning"

* * * * * * *

_The reference that DJ makes to Lucky Charms comes from a popular breakfast cereal in the United States, which is loaded with colorful marshmallow shapes. Some marketing genius decided that a Leprechaun would be the best image to relate the cereal to kids, so DJ decided to use that image to mock Barker for his size._

_-4ofCups, 2009.02.14_

 

 


	35. Backfire

*** BACKFIRE ***

**Chapter 35**

**. . . . . . .**

The sound of the gun blast froze both Lois and Curtis in their tracks.

Lois swallowed and reflexively eyed the Glock in her left hand, wondering for a moment if the noise had come from the weapon she now held. To her relief, she processed that there had been no kickback motion that would have been proof that the gun she held had gone off. Luckily her finger had not been over the trigger, or she would have squeezed it when she was jolted by the sound of the gun that _did_ go off.

From somewhere downstairs.

She looked at Curtis and could tell he was puzzling the same thing she was. "Did you see what he grabbed out of his bag when he left the room? His back was to me."

Curtis scoffed, smiling at her sarcastically. "Sorry, sweetheart, I was a little distracted by the sight of my own _ear_ on the floor." His smile faded, and he shook his head slowly. "I didn't see what he grabbed from his..." he motioned toward the blue duffle bag, "bag of tricks."

Lois pressed on with her line of thinking. "Do you think he shot someone?"

Curtis shrugged his shoulders in a reply.

"Or did someone shoot him?" Lois was certain she had heard the sound of voices overlapping. That bizarre Barker man had yelled in his effeminate voice, and there had been two lower-pitched voices after that. She was sure of it.

At least two intruders, but only one gun blast. Which was more likely – that the Joker was shot by one of the intruders, or that he had managed to subdue whoever was uninvited downstairs with a single threatening shot?

Curtis started to sway as his balance left him. His face went white and he sat down on the floor with an indelicate thud. Lois no longer had the gun aimed at him, but she maintained a wary distance. She watched as Curtis shrugged off his tattered jean jacked with difficulty, wincing as he drew his injured right hand through the sleeve. Lois saw that blood was starting to seep through the cloth wrapped around the wrist that the Joker had slashed. The cloth was the same one the Joker had used to wipe the make up from Lois' face. Both hers and _his._

Lois shook her head to clear the thought from her mind, and repeated her question to Curtis. "Hey, do you think that someone just shot him?"

He appeared to be looking absently at his own lap. With his left hand, Curtis pulled at the hem of his shirt. "I wouldn't bet on it. This is _his_ place. He's probably got guns and knives hidden all over, in places we don't know about. The element of surprise is on his side." Curtis tugged at his shirt, trying to pull it up over his stomach. He paused, looking at it with a knotted brow. He exhaled in annoyance, and looked up at Lois. "I need you to help me take off my shirt."

Lois hitched up the side of her mouth in a sarcastic half-grin. "You've got to be kidding me."

"Look, _bitch_ ," Curtis pointed toward the hole on the side of his head where his ear had been. "I need something to stop the bleeding. I'm going to pass out if I lose much more blood. I don't see anything else I can use as a bandage. My jean jacket is too rough and it's filthy. I can't put it against an open wound." Then his eyes trailed down to the floor to the left. Lois followed his gaze and her eyes landed on the Joker's discarded green vest. The bloodstain was visible on it from where she stood. _Her_ blood. Curtis continued, "And I'm sure as hell not touching anything of the _Joker's._ So if you don't help me take off my shirt, then take off your _own_ shirt and give it to me so I can use it to stop the bleeding."

"You can get your shirt off without my help." She could clearly see that he couldn't, but she didn't want to go near him.

Curtis clenched his jaw, but she could see that his strength was fading fast. His consciousness was soon to follow, by the sight of him.

"Look. _Lois._ " He appeared to be having trouble forming his words. "I'm going to pass out soon if I don't stop the bleeding immediately. You need my help to get out of here, whether the Joker is dead or not. So either help me, or let me pass out and enjoy whatever the Joker has planned for you. I'm betting he's not dead. Wounded, maybe, but not dead."

Lois felt stymied. More than likely, that was true. She realized she felt ambivalent about the prospect of the Joker's death; she wanted like hell for someone else to shoot the man dead in his tracks, so her torment would be over… but that would leave her with Curtis, and the men downstairs. Whoever they were, Lois reasoned that it wasn't likely they were the police. There would have been shouts for back up and more gunfire. No, there definitely weren't any officers of the law around.

The gears started to turn in her head. If the Joker were dead or incapacitated, and whoever shot him wasn't a police officer, that meant that there were likely more thugs downstairs who were hostile toward the Joker and his entire crew. If they killed the Joker, they'd likely want to take out everyone else who worked for him.

They could be on their way up through the house right now, looking for more of the Joker's crew to kill.

Lois' stomach tightened at the prospect, and she prayed that wasn't the case. To her shock, she found herself hoping that the Joker was the one who fired the gun downstairs, and was still in control. For all the torment the Joker had subjected her to, he had almost acted in the capacity of…

… _don't you_ even _start to think that way, Lo. Damn it, don't you_ dare _look at him that way_ …

…in the capacity of a protector.

_Don't you fall for his lies, Lo. Don't do it. His actions aren't about helping you, they're about helping himself._

But were they? He had warned her about Curtis' capabilities more than once in the course of this night, and he had given her – his own _hostage_ , for chrissakes – a Glock 22 with which to defend herself. He didn't have to warn her about Curtis or leave her armed.

_He told you those things to keep you in your place, Lo. He's using your own fear against you. He didn't tell you those things because he was concerned for your safety. Remember how this whole thing started? He's holding you responsible for insulting him on a nationally broadcast TV show. He's toying with you. He's going to toy with you for as long as he can, and then he's going to kill you. And it probably won't be a quick death, or a dignified one, either._

It was time for a reality check. Curtis was a vile thug and likely a career criminal, but the Joker was something more terrifying than she had ever encountered. She had to side with the lesser of two evils. She needed Curtis' help, and for that, she needed to help stanch the flow of blood from his head wound.

But she sure as hell wasn't taking off her shirt to do so.

"Fine," she spat at him, "I'll help you get your shirt off."

She knew it was dangerous to get physically close to the man, but he appeared to be weak enough not to put her in harm's way. He could use his own shirt to stop the bleeding and save some of his strength. Although she didn't want to get close enough to him to get grabbed, at least it seemed a better prospect than disrobing in front of him. The idea of working with a rapist while wearing just her satin Miracle Bra didn't seem prudent, to say the least. She also wasn't about to put on either Curtis' jacket or the Joker's vest to cover herself, thankyouverymuch.

She walked toward Curtis with trepidation, circling behind him. She had the gun pointed at him, finger on the trigger. "Don't try anything, asshole." _Really, Lo? You want to provoke this guy by calling him names?_ Well, hadn't he called her a nasty name or two? She reasoned that it all evened out, as she reached for the lower hem of the back of his shirt and pulled up. Curtis pulled at the front of his shirt with his left hand, and together they were able to work it over his head.

That's when Lois saw the tattoo, and recoiled.

As Curtis worked to snake both arms out of the long sleeves of the shirt, Lois stared in horror at his bare back. The tattoo spanned the width of his shoulders. To call it pornographic would have been euphemistic. It was so vile and depraved that Lois didn't know what she would call it.

Curtis balled up his shirt and pressed it gingerly to the side of his head, cursing as it made contact with the wound. After drawing his breath in sharply through his teeth, a low rumble of a laugh came out through his chest. "So, like my tat?" His shoulders shook as he laughed, but he didn't turn around to look at Lois. He wanted to make sure she was treated to the full sight of it.

Lois felt bile rise in her throat.

The graphic depicted a naked woman's genital area, legs spread wide apart as if being viewed from a gynecologist's perspective, with oversized breasts visible above the line of what would have been the woman's stomach, as seen while she was on her back. In stark contrast to the blue-green ink used to draw the woman's body and the nauseating detail of the genitals, there was blood-red ink depicting drops of blood coming from the woman's vaginal opening. As Lois stared with mouth agape at the picture, she realized that this view of the woman's body was drawn to resemble that of a skull: the underside of the breasts resembling the sunken eye sockets, with blood dripping from the mouth, which was the vagina. Below the woman's body were two crossed knives, giving the entire picture the look of an X-rated Jolly Roger flag. The tip of each knife's blade also had blood on it.

Underneath the obscene image were dark Gothic-style letters, which Lois recognized as the style used in Nazi propaganda flyers in the 1930's. The ornate decoration made the words difficult to read at first, but when her eyes adjusted to the style of the font, Lois had to stifle a gag:

**Taming Pussy Since 1973**

Underneath the scripted text were…

_Jesus Christ. Tell me I am not seeing this._

… hash marks.

Curtis had kept a tally of the women he had raped. Brazenly. Right on his own body. And by the look of it, he had reached a count in the high thirties.

As if reading her mind, Curtis turned his head and looked at her over his shoulder. "Y'know, for all the time I spent in prison, none of the guards ever figured out the significance of what those tally marks meant." His smile held malevolence. "How fuckin' stupid were _they_?"

Lois was frozen, transfixed as much by the image of the tattoo as by its meaning. Visually, the skull was a striking and foreboding image. It reminded her of the visage of the man who had brought her here tonight. There was something garish and terrifying about seeing the Joker in full makeup, an animated skull's face with a blood-red mouth. Not unlike what she was staring at now. As she looked at the crossed knives spotted with blood below the woman's vagina, the conversation she'd had with Jimmy Olson while driving to Gotham came back to her. He had called to tell her about the website vandalism.

Vandalism that had been attributed to The Joker.

_What was the depraved poem that Jimmy recited? Something about legs and a mouth and knives…_

Curtis registered that Lois was momentarily stunned. Just like all the other women had been when they saw the tattoo. Right before he made sure that they were the next tally mark to add to his back.

Lois strained to recall what the exact words were. _A deck of cards. It related to cards somehow, and it rhymed. Something about diamonds and clubs… and a tart…_ The Joker called her 'Tart'. A distant part of her mind questioned where he was. Shouldn't she be worried about his return soon? _Wait, there were two parts to it. Something about "diamonds and clubs" or "spades and hearts"…_

Curtis also noted that he was in swiping distance. He was a big man, and his arm span was wide.

Then Lois remembered it. _"Not clubs, not diamonds, not spades nor hearts, Joker wants his fingers in my cherry red tart."_ Lois blinked and looked at the position of the knives in the tattoo, as she recalled the next verse. _Then it went, something about my mouth… and my legs. Wait! "My legs and my mouth are both open wide, and I'm hoping the Joker cums inside with his knives."_

She stood horrified. The tattoo was practically the very visual depiction of the retched poem.

And then it clicked in her mind: _The Joker may have modified her bio picture on the_ Metropolis Live _website, and thrown out the original threat about - was it strip poker? so many things were blurring together - but the text that followed, which was decidedly more violent and obscene, was Curtis' doing._

_What type of twisted, depraved scum-?_

Curtis arced his left arm back and hit the top of Lois' left hand with a hard slap, sharp enough to make her drop the gun. Then he grabbed her wrist and pulled her forward with force. She stumbled and came down hard on her left side, next to him. It was all the leverage he needed, and he was on top of her in a heartbeat. Despite his weakened state, he was still much stronger than she was, and it was a move he had used many times before. He didn't even have to think it out.

Before she could scream, he put his right hand over her mouth. She could taste the makeshift bandage of the cloth on her tongue, and to her horror, she realized the wetness on her lips was a fresh bloodstain soaked through the bandage. She jerked her head to the side violently, the prospect of having any of Curtis' blood in her even more repulsive than the Joker's blood.

"You think if you scream anyone's going to help you? Heh, you think the _Joker's_ gonna help you?"

Lois knew the answer to that one. She was on her own, pinned below a man who was intent on making her another notch on his back.

________________________________

The Batman slipped inside the side door of Flesh For Fantasy, with Jones in tow right behind him. He peered around the corner and saw two men walk through the kitchen, then disappear out of sight. He turned to Jones and spoke to him in a hushed tone, which still managed to be menacing.

"It will be safer for you to stay down here while I look for your friend." It wasn't a suggestion. "Describe what he looks like."

Jones nodded. "My friend's about 6 feet tall. Uh, his hair is blonde and cut short, above the ears." He motioned up to his own ears while he spoke. The Batman stared at him. Jones swallowed, hoping that he hadn't inadvertently insulted the man by insinuating he didn't know what ears were. Jones cleared his throat and continued, "He sort of looks like that actor. What's his name?" He looked to the Batman for some sort of help, hoping that the man who dressed as a giant bat also watched _Entertainment Tonight_ on a regular basis. No assistance was forthcoming. "You know."

The Batman was in no mood to play along with this, but he couldn't risk bringing Jones into a possible dangerous fray to make the identification in person, because he was the only one who could lead him back to the Joker's lair. The Batman made an effort not to sigh in annoyance. "Old movies or new?"

Jones' eyes lit up. "New. Um, I guess he does comedies."

"Ben Stiller?"

"Nope."

"Owen Wilson?"

"No."

"Will Farrell?"

"No, he's a good-looking guy." Jones thought for a minute. "I think he did an action movie!"

"Tom Cruise?"

"No, not Tom Cruise."

"Christian Bale?"

Jones shrugged his shoulders. "I don't know who that is."

"Arnold Schwarzenegger?"

"No, the actor's blonde."

The Batman was almost out of ideas. Aside from the obvious actors, he didn't follow entertainment enough to notice who the rising stars were. "Johnny Depp?"

Jones scoffed. "Johnny Depp's not blonde." He chuckled, but clammed up fast when he saw the expression on the vigilante's face. "Sorry."

"So your friend's a good-looking blonde guy. I'll go with that."

He turned to leave when Jones' recollection hit. "Mathew McConaughey! That's who he looks like. Sort of. He brags about it, says it's why he gets so many girls."

The Batman didn't blink. "You're telling me I'm looking for a Mathew McConaughey look-alike?"

Jones shrank back. In a tiny voice he replied, "Um, yeah? His name is Wallace."

"Stay here, and don't move until I return." He slipped down the hallway, turned the corner and was out of sight. Jones marveled that for the man's size, he hadn't made a sound. He hoped that stealth would help him in tracking down Wallace before it was too late.

________________________________

But it was too late.

Chaz and Donny had helped Vinnie Maroni back to his feet after he exhausted himself by stabbing Wallace's lifeless form out of grief. They assisted him to a private elevator, in which he was accompanied by Dr. Silvi. Before the doors closed, Maroni's blank stare met Chaz' face. "Remember what I said. Get the word out. Tonight." The last thing he saw before the elevator doors closed was Chaz nodding and reaching for his cell phone.

Dr. Silvi rode with Maroni down to the basement. Maroni put his arm around Dr. Silvi's shoulders, and allowed himself to be helped to one of his private offices. Dr. Silvi locked the door, then helped Maroni to a couch and propped his injured leg up on an ottoman. He opened his medical bag and took out gauze, rubbing alcohol and a scalpel. "We've got to get at least one of those bullets out of your leg, Vinnie."

Maroni nodded, still numb from the news of his daughter's brutal murder at the hands of Sergei Kruzynski. "I'm gonna need a drink."

Dr. Silvi nodded. "You most certainly will." He went to the bar and brought back a bottle of 80-proof Jim Bean Black. He unscrewed the cap and handed the bottle of bourbon to Maroni. "I'd start drinking this straight, if I were you." Maroni nodded, tipped his head back, and started to drink. The burn in his throat gave him something to focus on. He was grateful for a physical pain to detract from the emotional one.

Dr. Silvi pulled up Maroni's pant leg, and swiped the first wound with alcohol. He paused and turned to face Maroni. "Vinnie, I am so sorry for what happened to Tessa." He turned back to face the task at hand. He didn't know what else there was that could be said.

Maroni nodded absently, a detached acknowledgement of the condolences. "Yeah, I'm sorry, too." In his hand he held Wallace's cell phone. The picture of Wallace holding the stolen rocket launcher was still on the screen.

"But not as sorry as the Joker's gonna be."

Dr. Silvi pulled out the medical forceps, and looked up at Maroni. "This is gonna hurt, Vin."

Maroni scoffed. "That's the theme in Gotham tonight. Everything fuckin' hurts."

He took a swig of his drink, then nodded at Dr. Silvi to begin. He gripped the arm of the sofa until his knuckles blanched to stave off the pain as the forceps went in to extract the bullet, but the pain wasn't as bad as he anticipated.

He'd already learned there were far worse pains to bear.

________________________________

His significant weight had her pinned to the floor, and it was difficult to breathe.

Curtis had to weigh a good sixty or seventy pounds more than the Joker, and the weight of him threatened to crush her. His breath was rank as he reached down to unfasten his pants with his left hand, squeezing her breast painfully as he made his way down. "Yeah, you like that, you cunt?" He turned his head and the gaping wound where his ear had been was only inches from her face. A blood droplet pooled and threatened to drop down onto her cheek, but he turned his face back to her before gravity took its course.

Lois couldn't believe what was happening. For all the torment the Joker had put her through, she was about to get raped by this hulking Neanderthal. She gasped, trying to force words out against the crushing weight of the goon atop her. "We! Have to!" She winced in pain. "Get out of here! Stop!"

She felt his large hands roughly pull at the top of her dress pants, and could hear the button hit the floor as he ripped it off. He yanked the zipper of her pants down with force, smirking triumphantly. "We're not goin' anywhere. We're dead, baby. He's gonna _kill us_ , you stupid bitch. We can't get out of here, so I'm going to get my last kicks while I can." He drew his left hand back up to his right shoulder and backhanded Lois across the face with force. The blow landed with a loud clapping sound across the left side of her face, hard enough to split the skin along the outer orbital bone. Her head lolled to the right as the impact left her dazed, and she could feel warm blood leak into her left eye, stinging it. She was about to blink reflexively but something in her line of vision caught her eye.

It was on the floor, and it was within her grasp. Curtis hadn't noticed it, for his own preoccupation with pulling his penis out of his pants.

It was the pencil. The Scooby Doo pencil with the neon blue eraser, the one the Joker had discarded and forgotten after his antics with the Mad Libs earlier.

Curtis stroked himself a few times, then stuck his hand inside Lois' underwear to pull them down. "I'm gonna make this hurt, bitch. Payback, for when you kicked me earlier."

Lois grabbed the pencil with her right hand. She wasn't as coordinated as she was with her left, but she coiled her fingers around the pencil, and as forcefully as she could, she brought her arm up and stabbed Curtis in the side of the head with the pencil's tip. Right near the gaping ear wound.

Curtis shrieked and rolled off Lois, hands clasping the side of his head. The air rushed back into Lois' lungs, and she scrambled backwards on the floor, keeping the pencil in her hand. Her left hand hit something and sent it skidding a few inches.

It was the Glock 22 that Curtis had knocked out of her hand only moments ago.

She grabbed it and aimed it at Curtis' head. He rolled up onto his knees, but she remained in her lower position on the floor, wiping at the blood by her eye with the back of her right hand.

"Aaaaaahhhhhhhhhhh! _FUCK!"_ His voice was high-pitched from the pain, almost like a woman's. "You fucking _bitch!"_

Lois cocked the gun. She had never wanted to kill someone as badly as she wanted to kill Curtis. She had the motive. And she had the weapon. The fury that welled in her was all-consuming. She could only spit out her words in a contemptuous whisper. "You monster! You brought this on yourself!"

Curtis' wailing stopped, and he rocked back and forth, trying to cope with the excruciating pain. His mouth was frozen open in a silent scream of agony.

Lois repeated herself in a whispered tone. "You brought this on yourself. You brought this on yourself." She was trying to convince herself that she had acted against Curtis in self-defense. "You brought this on yourself." Or perhaps it was a self-reproach for everything that had happened this evening as a result of the _Metropolis Live_ broadcast.

Curtis looked at her and mouthed the words, "I'm gonna kill you."

Lois felt terror and anger course through her.

Then, from behind Curtis, the Joker's voice wafted up from under the closed door. "Honey! I'm ho-ome! And I brought you a _present_ , Snookums!"

Both Curtis and Lois were momentarily frozen, looking at each other in confusion.

"I'm, ah, coming through the door now, Sweet Tart, so you can put the gun down." Curtis looked back, and saw doorknob turn. Lois had to lean around Curtis to see it. He was directly between her and the door, obstructing her view.

A surge of adrenaline hit Curtis, when he realized the Joker had returned. This could be their only chance to escape. He whipped his head back around to look at Lois. " _SHOOT HIM!"_

Curtis lunged for the gun, wanting to do the job himself. His rash movement startled Lois.

As did the sound of the Joker kicking the door to The Room open.

Frightened as much by the sound of the door banging open as by the sight of Curtis jumping at her, Lois reflexively pulled the Glock's trigger.

A cannon-decibel shot rang out. The bullet flew over Curtis' right shoulder, and connected squarely with the head of the man in the doorway.

To her horror, Lois watched as his body was driven backwards from the force of the bullet's impact, and a red and pink splatter radiated out on the wall as blood and brain matter was expelled through the back of the shattered skull. The body slumped down the wall into a heap, trailing a thick red stain of blood as it sank. The body lay motionless, a tangle of purple pants, a blue patterned shirt and blood.

Barker began screaming hysterically in the hallway. "You _killed_ him! What have you _done_? _Mr. Joker_!"

Curtis' mouth hung open, and he blinked a few times, processing the sight in the hallway. He turned back to Lois, with something akin to awe on his face. "Holy shit! You killed him. You just killed the God-damned _Joker_!"

Lois began to shake. She didn't mean to kill _him._ She meant to shoot _Curtis_.

Ice coursed through her veins. _Oh my God, what have I just done?_

________________________________

_. . . . . . ._

Author's Notes for "Backfire"

. . . . . . .

_The idea of having the Batman offer Christian Bale's name as a possible actor to liken Wallace to seemed too funny to pass up._

_As for the ending... if anyone is upset by it, just read the next chapter. ;)_

_-4oC 2009.03.08_

 


	36. Chumming the Waters

*** CHUMMING THE WATERS ***

**Chapter 36**

**. . . . . . .**

Donny and Tommy had wrapped Wallace's body up in plastic tarpaulin, and they'd managed to get the blood cleaned up quickly and efficiently. As often as they'd had to do it in the past, it had almost become rote to them.

It was past midnight, and several corridors were not well illuminated. It facilitated easy passage for the Batman as he made his way back to the main room where the prior attack had happened. He heard muffled voices and peered around the corner from the outer hallway, back against the wall to remain unseen from inside the larger room.

In the middle of the floor was a body wrapped in clear plastic. The inside of the tarp was almost completely stained in blood, indicating multiple entry wounds. The time he'd spent haggling with Jones over an actor to liken his friend to had been futilely wasted. He could see through the plastic that there was practically nothing left of the man's face, the injuries were so grievous. Judging from the short blond hair on the parts of the skull that were still intact, it had to be Wallace.

The Batman balled his fists at his sides. It hadn't taken Maroni's men long to kill Wallace at all. Unless the security cameras were still running, and he didn't think it was likely, there was no evidence immediately apparent as to which one of them had actually killed Wallace. There was little that could be done for him now: Gotham was in the midst of the most horrifying siege it had ever seen, thanks to the Joker's men, one of whom had just been murdered by the Mob within the last half hour or so. Justice for this single murdered man would have to wait. Jim Gordon and his men had far more pressing matters on their hands, and any time spent rounding up the men who killed Wallace was time that Lois Lane didn't have.

One man on a cell phone caught the Batman's attention, who didn't have to strain to hear the Mobster's side of the conversation. The voice wafted with ease toward him from inside the cavernous room.

"That's right. Ten million. Maroni said he'll pay ten million dollars to anyone who can bring him the Joker alive before dawn. Yeah, he wants the word out, so start spreadin' it. Oh! Wait, this don't apply to the Belarussians, you got me?"

The Batman narrowed his eyes, as he watched the Mafia thug nod and listen to the voice on the other end of the phone.

Chaz continued, "Sergei Kruzynski murdered Maroni's daughter tonight. No, I an't shittin' you! Burned her in her own car in her own driveway with a Molotov cocktail. Yeah. Fuckin' nightmare."

The Batman shook his head and clenched his teeth. The unchecked violence in the underground crime circles knew no limits. Not even innocents were spared. He knew all-too well what that was like. Anger welled in him as the image of his murdered parents in the alleyway outside the opera house flashed in his mind.

"Yeah. Naw, no. No. He's holding the Joker responsible. He says that the Joker was the one who took the weapons that were supposed to go to the Belarussians. That's why his daughter is dead." Chaz cradled the phone against his shoulder as he tugged at his shirt sleeves from within his jacket. "No, he said 'alive'. He definitely wants the Joker brought in alive." Chaz laughed a low rumble, and he turned so the Batman could see his face. "No, he didn't say _how_ alive, just alive. He said that he wants to see the guy on his knees in front of 'im before dawn."

All of the Batman's senses honed to a razor's point at this disclosure.

"Uh, yeah, I _guess_ he meant back here. He didn't really give a location. Maroni was shot tonight—no, I'm not kiddin'! He can't get around too easy, so I'm thinkin' he'll probably want to stay here. He just said that he wants the freak brought to him before dawn, alive. I'm sure he's got all sorts of things planned for him."

 _Damn it._ Now not only was Lois' life in danger, the Joker's was as well. The Batman eyed the remains of Wallace's body on the floor with remorse. Wallace's murder had just happened, in this very building only moments ago, while he had been outside with Jones, and he hadn't returned in time to stop it. _Let this be the only murder I'm too late to prevent tonight._

Chaz was still talking to his contact. "We've got the phone of one of the Joker's men. Maroni's going through it, to see if he can find anything that can lead us to wherever the Joker is based. No," Chaz walked over to Wallace's body and nudged it with his foot. "No, we can't get any more out of that guy. He won't be doin' any talkin', if you get my drift." Chaz chuckled, then caught himself. "Oh! You'll never believe who was here earlier! The Batman showed up here! Yeah, I dunno, but I got in a few good punches on him, too."

The Batman found that outright amusing. And judging from Chaz's crestfallen expression, so had the person on the other end of the line. "No, man, I really did! Yeah, I got in a few good licks. What? Oh, yeah? Well, fuck you, pal! Just get the word out."

He snapped the phone shut, and turned toward Tommy and Donny. "You guys wait here while I find out from Maroni where he wants the Joker brung to."

He strode across the floor to the hallway where the Batman had been listening. Chaz turned the corner and walked toward the stairs, never noticing the flash of a billowing cape as the Batman hoisted himself out of sight over the exposed support beams above.

As the Batman watched Chaz turn the corner for the stairs, he knew he had to get word to Gordon's men about the bounty placed on the Joker's head. They needed their best undercover units to surround Flesh For Fantasy, to nab the Joker if a bounty hunter brought him in.

If it got that far. The Batman needed to intercede beforehand. Once he could insure Lois' safety, he needed to find a safe place to detain the most wanted man alive tonight. He sighed in resignation, acknowledging that Alfred may be the only one he could count on to help him with that task.

________________________________

Lois was still shaking. This seemed unreal, like the nightmare she'd had earlier in the evening. She had never shot anyone in her life, let alone killed someone.

And now there was a man lying dead in the hallway at her very hand. Not just any man. The Joker. She felt like she would vomit.

Curtis staggered to his feet, while Lois remained dumbstruck on the floor. "Holy shit. Holy fuckin' _shit,_ bitch, you really _killed_ him!" His expression was one of near elation, his physical agony nearly forgotten for the excitement he felt. Things were turning in his favor after all. His original plan of taking over the Joker's crew seemed more of a reality now, as it had when he first conceived it earlier this evening.

He staggered toward the door. "Fuckin' _awesome,_ man. This is _awesome!_ " He turned to look at Lois from the doorframe. "Lady, you have no idea the favor you've done me." Lois scowled. She didn't want Curtis' thanks, or his awe, or his _anything._ Certainly not over a killing. Curtis smiled broadly. It was a triumphant smile, knowing and smarmy. Curtis started to laugh as he looked at Lois, who still absently clutched the gun in her hand.

It startled her when his expression changed rapidly, eyes widening and a choking sound stifling his laughter.

Then his face went slack, his jaw dropped open, and blood flowed from it like a waterfall. As he fell to his knees, Lois' eyes widened as his face came into the spotlights from overhead. As his jaw hung open, she was treated to the view inside his mouth.

A large hunting knife's blade was pointing in her direction, from inside Curtis' mouth, like a metallic second tongue. As his body pitched forward and the life drained from it, she saw the handle of the hunting knife protruding from the base of the skull.

"Sweet. Tart- _ah!"_

Lois jumped as the Joker stuck his head around the doorway from the hall, face partially obscured by a baseball cap. "Curtis isn't the only one that you, ah… you did a _favor_ for, you know." He licked his lips and stepped inside the room.

Absolute confusion overcame Lois, as her eyes darted from the Joker to the body wearing his clothes in the hallway. She began to stammer, "Who…? What is…? I—I don't underst—" Her voice trailed off.

The Joker took off the cap and scratched his head, motioning to the body. "Uh, that's DJ. Or, it _was_ DJ. He said he wanted to know what it would be like" (smack) "to run with my crew." He shrugged his shoulders. "So I said, 'Hey, kid, how would you like to know what it's like to _be me_ , and not just one of my crew?' So we swapped clothes. It gave him a big thrill, I could tell, getting to step into the shoes of the Big Kahuna himself." He raised his eyebrows at her. "Meeeeeeeeeeeeee."

 _Kid?_ Lois let the gun slip from her hand. Had she just killed a kid? "How old was he?" Desperation was etched on her face.

The Joker chewed the side of his mouth. "Dunno. Don't worry, I'm sure he was at least eighteen. Definitely older than his friend who I shot downstairs."

He sauntered toward her, as she processed his confession of having murdered a teenager. The sight of him was particularly discordant now. He wore the kid's slovenly jeans with holes in the knees, a long-sleeved black shirt under a dark grey Metallica shirt, and dirty tennis shoes. The paint was smearing off his face. Most of it was still there, but it looked awful.

He crouched down by Lois, picked the Glock 22 up from the floor and tucked it into the waistband of the jeans behind his back. He ran his tongue over his lips as he looked at her, and took her chin in his hand. "Like I said, Sweet. Tart- _ah."_ He swallowed, and blinked slowly, with a hint of a smile at the right corner of his mouth. "You did _me_ a favor, too."

Lois felt herself go weak. This was another game where she was supposed to guess what it was that she had done, and whether it was good or bad. She didn't have the stamina for this anymore.

"I, uh, I asked you to keep the gun on Curtisssssss, and not to shoot. Me. With it." (smack) "And you agreed." His tone grew condescending as his eyes grew wide. He nodded encouragingly at her. "Remember?"

Lois dipped her chin in the faintest of motions that could pass for an accedence.

"Mmm hmmm, you di _d_ agree, Lois. You gave me your _wooorrrrrrd._ " Barker peered his head around the doorway from the hallway. He was wearing his clown mask again. He tilted his head slightly as he looked at her. The Joker also tilted his head as he looked at Lois. "You gave me your wor _d_ , and then you broke it. Didn't you?"

"No! No, that's not how it happened. I didn't try to shoot-"

"How did you get that cut on your face?"

Lois had forgotten it out of fear of her interrogator. "Uh, he uh, it was Curtis. Curtis hit me."

"Oh, Curtis _hit_ you, did he? Hmmm." He narrowed his eyes at her, as he tilted his head down toward his shoulder. Then, he leaned his head in the other direction and looked up at the ceiling, shaking his head as if trying to puzzle a riddle, scrunching up his face. "How was that... _possible_ , when you were supposed to be _guarding_ him... with-"

He returned his focus to her. "-the _gun_?"

She bit her lip and turned her face from his, not wanting to admit to the bargain she had tried to strike with Curtis.

He took her chin and turned her face back to his. "You tried to make a _deal_ with Curtis, didn't you? _Didn't you,_ Lois? And after all I warned you about him." He shook his head in a reprimand. "See, Queen of Tartsssss, you've done me a favor by showing me your true colors." He closed his eyes and made a circling motion with his hand, to illustrate the logic that followed subsequently. "Showing me that I can't _trust_ you." He opened his eyes and looked at her at close range. "I guess that I _can't_ trust you, now can I? You'd rather make a deal with a _rapist,_ a low-life common _thug,_ than with me. Is that it?"

_I can't win with him. No matter what I say, he'll see it how he wants to. Oh my God, why is this happening?_

"I told you I was coming through that door, and you fired the gun."

Lois stiffened and began protesting again. "But I wasn't trying to hit _you_! Curtis jumped at—"

He continued if he hadn't heard her. "You fired the gun, because you _thought_ that _I_ was the one coming through the door. See…" he sighed dramatically, "that's what I was _afraid_ might happen. That's why I had DJ put on my clothes, just in case you tried to go back on our _agree-ment-ah,_ and try to shoot me even though you _told_ me you wouldn' _t."_

"No! I didn't go back on anything! Like I said, I wasn't trying—"

His eyes blackened and his hand moved in a flash from her chin to the back of her head, grabbing a fistful of her hair. Lois screamed in surprise and from the pain as he tightened his grip.

He smiled and rolled his eyes up toward the ceiling. "You just can't trust. Anyone." He yanked her head hard by the hair for emphasis. "These days. You _think_ that someone understands you, but they don't. You think they can see how much better you are than the rest, but they can't. No matter how much you try to do for them, they just...

 _stab"_ (yank)

"you _in"_ (yank)

"the _back."_ (yank) Lois' eyes welled with tears from the stinging pain.

"You think he'll play along, but he _won't_ come out to play, no matter how many times you invite himmmm."

Lois searched his face for meaning. _What did he say?_ Lois was confused by the change in logic. _Him?_ Invite who? Who was he talking about?

"You know," he chewed the corner of his mouth, "a guy _thinks_ he's got a pal he can trust, and his pal just keeps letting him down." His eyes drifted upward as if he were recalling a memory. Then they fell on her face.

"Then a guy finds a gal who he thinks can be his…" he licked his lips suggestively, " _special girrrrrrrrlllll,_ and then she betrays him, too."

Lois didn't like where this was going.

The Joker leaned in and planted a solid kiss with a comical smack on her forehead. "Thank you, Loissss. Thank you for showing me how genuine you _truly_ are. And how much I still have left to teach you." His eyes rolled back in his head and he shut his lids. A manic smile flickered across his lips, then was gone. He opened his eyes again. "You ungrateful. Little. Tart."

He sprang to his feet, keeping his hold on the tangle of her hair at the base of her skull. He pulled her hair forcefully, and had enough of it in his fist to drag her across the floor after him. Lois shrieked and clawed at his arm, fighting for purchase to counter the weight from the excruciating pull coming from the back of her head. She tried to get to her feet but stumbled, landing back on her knees. He wouldn't let go.

He dragged her toward the door, barking at Barker as he approached. "Is it ready?"

Barker nodded quickly. "Yes sir, yes Mr. Joker. It's ready for you."

He stopped and Lois finally caught up to him. She stood up at his side, in the doorway leading out of The Room into the hallway, unable to stand up straight because of the weight he was exerting downward on the back of her head. He bent down at the waist to look up at Lois squarely in the face.

"Oh, it's not for _me,_ Barker." He leaned in until he was mere inches from Lois' face. "It's for _her_."

With a swift yank, the Joker lead her through the doorway, her motions completely in his control by his hold on her hair. She realized that this was the first time she'd been allowed to leave The Room all night long. As she passed by Barker, she glimpsed down at him.

Even from behind the mask she could see the fear in his eyes.

He trailed obediently behind them.

________________________________

Contrary to popular perception, billionaires rarely get a full night's sleep.

It's assumed that their wealth facilitates a life of idle indulgence, and that they maintain insulation from the rest of the world by way of material indulgences. Their beautiful faces grace the covers of magazines, spanning the gamut from business tech savvy periodicals to gossip rags.

The truth is, a billionaire's life is seldom their own. Especially if that billionaire lives in one of the largest cities on the Eastern Seaboard of the United States, with his name on the building that employs thousands as the business fulcrum of the city.

There are contracts to uphold, investments to support, and people who depend on you. Many, many people who depend on you, be it for financial reasons or for their very welfare, predicated upon the social programs your wealth can keep afloat. To keep this machine running smoothly, it is vital that a billionaire maintains connections with their network associates at all times.

Day or night.

With great financial privilege comes great responsibility. No one understands this more than the person who shoulders the weight in an adjunct capacity, the figurative right-hand to the person that everyone wants a piece of.

It was past midnight on this late October night, and an elderly man – a father figure, really – dutifully stood his proverbial guard while his employer was out in the city. Somewhere in the city. He rarely gave an exact location. It was better that way.

His bones creaked and his body was stooped, but age could not deter him from his duty. He patiently paced the halls of the spacious mansion, waiting for word from a man so enshrouded in mystery, no one really knew who he was.

He passed by the media room, with its LCD televisions always illuminated. Each TV was dedicated to a single channel; one tracked business news, with a financial ticker scrolling at the bottom; another tracked the local news, for any word of criminal cases; still another was tuned to the international business news, keeping abreast of everything happening in Toyko when the rest of the United States was tucked into bed. Having money meant keeping it, which wasn't always as easy as it sounded. Particularly when things had been as dicey as they had been in the last year.

Further down the hallway, he padded into the mansion's library. His attention was immediately caught by a flashing red light coming from a device next to the computer. He fished into his robe for his reading glasses as he approached the wide band communications receiver. It was attuned to record all police channel frequencies, to allow for an early notification, should criminal activity be afoot. It also picked up on cellular frequencies of mobiles that were known to be used by those in the criminal underworld. The police weren't aware that they harbored this particular technology, and they planned to keep it that way.

The communications receiver was wired to proprietary software that translated all spoken words into text, and generated a constant feed like a fax machine. The elderly man pushed his spectacles up onto the bridge of his nose as his eyes scanned the latest recording.

It was of interest. It was of interest, indeed.

He picked up the phone on the desk, hit a single button, and was immediately connected to his employer.

The Englishman cleared his throat and spoke. "Sir."

The voice was hushed on the other end. "Impressive timing. I was just thinking that I needed to call you myself. But I'm a bit indisposed at the moment."

He had anticipated that. It was rarely a good time to reach his employer, particularly after dark. "Begging your pardon sir, but I thought it was of high importance. I just read on the Com Report that Vincent Maroni has issued a bounty of ten million dollars for the delivery of the Joker to him by dawn. Alive."

There was a pause. "Yes, I just found out myself."

The elderly man nodded on his end, not entirely surprised. The younger man could be a bit impetuous, and was often a few steps ahead of everyone else. Including him. "Right then, sir. Just wanted to make sure you were aware."

Silence on the other end. He hadn't expected a thank you.

Which was why he was pleasantly surprised when he received one.

"Trevor?"

The elderly man stiffened with attention. "Yes sir?"

"Thank you for your prompt attention." The line went dead.

Trevor replied into his end of the phone anyway. "Quite welcome, Mr. Luthor."

________________________________

. . . . . . .

Author's Notes for "Chumming the Waters"

. . . . . . .

_I wanted there to be a bit of heightened urgency in this chapter. Not just for Lois, but for the Joker as well. He's got a sizable target on his back, one big enough to catch Lex Luthor's interest. And anyone who knows the Superman comics/movies/TV shows knows that Lex is not a Very Nice Man._

_-4ofCups, 2009.03.08_

 


	37. Foreplay

*** FOREPLAY ***

**Chapter 37**

**. . . . . . .**

The Joker stopped abruptly at the top of the staircase. From Lois' precarious vantage point, the stairs before her seemed unusually steep. She cringed at the prospect of being dragged down them, especially by her hair, which the Joker seemed intent on doing.

He looked back over his shoulder. "Barke _rrr,_ go fetch my bag, and make sure to bring me camera number..." (smack) "...three. But before you do that, get my clothes off that kid, will ya?" Barker nodded and bent down to undress DJ's lifeless body as gingerly as he could, clearly unnerved at having to touch a corpse.

The Joker tilted his head to watch Barker. _Oh, this is just toooo easy._

" _BOO!"_ He shouted at Barker at the top of his lungs, startling Lois as well. The little man screamed and jumped backward from the body, flapping his wrists effeminately. This display doubled the Joker over in a fit of laughter. With his free hand, he slapped his thigh with enthusiasm.

Lois could see part of the scene through tangled hair that covered her face. The clown clearly held no one in favor when it came to getting a laugh, even if it came at the expense of his own lackeys. It didn't matter to him who was denigrated. Everyone was a target.

When the Joker's laughter died down to a hoarse giggle, he looked down at the Metallica t-shirt he wore and scoffed. He raised his eyebrows at Lois. "I was always more of an Ozzy fan, myself. Turn around and face the wall." He pushed her face roughly against the peeling wallpaper and released his hold on her hair, and she could see him wriggle to get out of the shirt from the corner of her eye.

He balled up the shirt and tossed it in Barker's direction. "Use that to mop up all the blood that got on my clothes." He dipped his head down to his left shoulder, cracking his neck. "I'd prefer to, ah, go deeper into the night in my own threads." He pulled at the long sleeves of the black crew neck shirt he'd been wearing underneath. He considered the color, and clucked his disapproval. "Black is so… _boring._ I can think of someone who wears a _lot_ of black. Because he doesn't know how to cut loose and have some _fun."_

The Joker spun Lois around, and closed his hand around her throat. He leaned in, an all-too familiar breach of her personal space she'd endured many times over already. A smile played on one side of his jagged mouth. "Not like us, huh, Sweet Tart? We know how to have fun- _ah!_ "

His tongue snaked out over his bottom lip and caressed his front teeth. His hand found its way to the back of her head to grab her hair once more. "Here we go, Lois." He licked his lips. "Ready... or… _n_ o _t._ "

_Oh my God._

He pulled her down the stairs swiftly. It was the same staircase that Mooney's body had been carried down only a few hours earlier, before being tossed over the Winter Hill Overpass onto the Gotham Expressway below.

By contrast, Mooney's corpse – lifeless and completely desensitized to pain – had been taken down the stairs with much more care than the Joker was showing Lois. She kept her balance for the first few steps down toward the second floor, but she couldn't keep up with the Joker's pace. She was bent down at the waist, for the weight of his hand on the back of her head.

Inevitably, gravity took its course.

She pitched forward, coming down hard on the wooden stairs on her stomach, nearly taking him out with her. She put her arms out in front of her to shield her ribcage from the fall, her forearms taking the brunt of the force by hitting the edge of the steps. The blow was sharp, and it felt like she'd been struck across the arms with a baseball bat. Pain shot through her knees and she winced as her hipbones came down on a step's edge.

Her arms shielded her torso, but not her head. She watched as the edge of a wooden stair rushed toward her face. At the last fraction of a second, her head snapped to a halt, inches over the blunt edge. Her nose and cheekbone would have shattered, had the Joker not kept his fist locked in her hair, preventing her face from hitting the edge of the step.

She'd seen enough of his actions that night to know that her face was spared the impact on the stairs only because he'd not relinquished his grip on her as she fell. It had nothing to do with his wanting to protect her, nor sparing her from pain. It was all about control. He wanted to show her who was in charge.

As if any doubt had ever crossed her mind.

Her eyes stung with tears from the throbbing pain in her arms and stinging of her hair being pulled. The Joker bent down to look Lois in the face with mock sympathy. "Whoops, did my bunny fall down?" His smile broadened, and in the dim light the scars on his face seemed to dance through the mist of her eyes like slithering snakes. His voice dropped in register. "Well, tough shit." He gave her hair another yank. "Up. Move."

She tried to push herself to her knees, which was an awkward feat while facing downward on a staircase. He offered no help, and did not let go of her hair. She got to her hands and knees and crawled down the rest of the stairs behind him, a painful exercise on uncarpeted stairs.

She could hear him snicker above her. " _Crawling_ after a man, Lois? I woulda thought that a gal of your in-dee- _pen-_ dence wouldn't sink to such behavior."

_I hate you. I hate every bone in that rotten, vile body of yours, you son of a bitch._

At the landing, he waited for her to get to her feet. "Up up up." His direction was issued fast. "Up. C'mon, up up. Up." She was barely vertical when she felt herself being pulled forward again. "This way… it's playtime, Sweet Tart." A manic giggle passed over his lips, and from Lois' view of his feet, she would swear that he was… skipping.

He pulled her over to a long couch and pushed her forcefully by the back of her head before finally releasing her. She fell onto her stomach upon a tattered sofa with holes and cupreous stains on it. It was the blood that had flowed from Mooney's gaping head wounds after the Joker had put three rounds into his skull at point-blank range, just over twenty-four hours earlier.

The stains hadn't quite dried, and their metallic odor mingled with that of beer spilled on the cushions. Lois hoisted herself up with revulsion, sitting back on the sofa to distance herself from the gore.

"Playtime," the Joker repeated. Then he spun and lunged at her. He halted his own momentum, bracing his weight by catching the armrest and back of the couch, sandwiching Lois between his arms. He raised his eyebrows, and leaned his head in toward hers. His voice was raspy. "Plaaaaaaay." He pushed off and turned from her.

"Play." He walked from the couch.

She wiped at her tears with her shirtsleeves, looking around the room. A large flat screen TV was in one corner, with a second right next to it. Both were connected to what appeared to be a satellite box and a DVD player.

"Play play play."

There were a few boxes in another corner, and the windows were boarded up. It had a musty smell to it. Lois bet the room hadn't been aired out in years.

"Pla-ay." The pitch was sing-songy.

Crushed cigarettes littered the floor. The place was filthy. At a glance, The Room upstairs was more inviting.

Except for Curtis' body in it, with a hunting knife lodged in his skull, lifeless eyes frozen open. And his severed ear somewhere on the floor.

"P-p-p-plaaaaaaay."

Lois shuddered, still craving the familiarity of the room she'd been dragged from. She watched as the Joker pulled a cheap wooden coffee table across the floor, placing it several feet away from the couch. He turned a box upside down and placed it on the top of the coffee table. He turned to face her, straightening up and stopping abruptly. His arms fell to his sides, head tilted, jutting forward and down. His stance was wide. The Chelsea grin spread across his face.

His voice was soft.

"Plaaaaaay."

It was the most menacing whisper Lois had ever heard.

________________________________

In the backroom of a strip club, two men were talking business.

The nervous waitress gave them a wide berth, the iron control of their faculties exuding a menacing air that frightened her. Both men watched with faces like stone when patrons passed their table to use the restrooms, which was an increasingly frequent occurrence: the revelation of the Joker's attack on Gotham sent droves of men streaming into strip clubs and underground brothels all over the city. The logic was that if the city were going to hell, they were going to get their kicks while they still could.

One of the two men leaned in to ask a question, but his partner held up his hand to silence him. Both turned to view a man walking by their table, and they looked upon him with open hostility. The abrupt silence was necessary.

Their line of work demanded discretion.

Earlier in the evening, their services had been contracted. Upon receiving their charge, they had agreed to meet in a locale not frequented by Gotham's finest in blue uniforms. They had come to discuss whether arson or bullets was the most effective means to their end.

Bounty hunters.

As one of the men with a shaved head reached into his jacket to pull out a vibrating cell phone, his colleague with a black ponytail glared at a man who stumbled out of the bathroom and let his curious gaze linger a bit too long. Unnerved by being on the receiving end of such an angry look, the hapless patron cleared his throat and looked to the floor before walking away quickly.

The bald man tapped his colleague on the arm with the back of his hand. "Look at this." He passed his cell phone over, allowing him to read the text message.

The swarthy man raised his eyebrows. "Screw the Cartelli hit." He smiled a mouth full of gold teeth, and tapped the screen of the cell phone. "Let's score the motherfucker."

The bald man nodded. Both men stood up, and walked out of the lounge without paying for their drinks or their meal. The waitress who had kept a wary eye on them called to the bartender when she saw them bailing on their tab, and pointed at the pair. The bartender pulled his collar up to his mouth, to speak into the microphone wired to it. The bouncer outside the club put his fingers up to his ear, to better hear the words coming through his earpiece from the bartender.

He turned to block the way of the two men leaving. "Excuse me. Did you gentlemen forget something before you left?"

The bald man picked at his teeth with a toothpick. "I dunno." He turned to his colleague. "Hamad, did we forget something?"

Hamad smiled. The gold teeth caught the eye of the bouncer. He'd seen that smile somewhere before. It was ferocious and distracting, which was why he didn't raise his arms to block the straight razor that was brought cleanly across his jugular in a swift stroke.

"No," Hamad spoke to the body that dropped before them to the sidewalk. "We didn't forget nothing."

They stepped over the bouncer as the blood drained from his body. The bald man looked back at him. "'S'cuse us. We've got a clown to catch and a reward to collect."

________________________________

All over Gotham, text messages were transmitting to the cell phones of bounty hunters, felons and degenerates. Secretive phone calls were made, fueled by avarice and the thirst for glory. Bargains were struck and alliances among thieves were forged. No one in Gotham was fool enough to think that one person alone could bring down the Joker.

It would require collaboration, derelicts willing to put aside past transgressions with each other for the promise of a dizzying sum of money. Competing drug pushers phoned each other, money launderers contacted pimps, and down-and-out ex-cons went from bar to bar, seeking out anyone known to carry a weapon who would join them in their quest for Maroni's promised reward.

Schemes were hatched. Even by those entrusted to keep order.

________________________________

"Jonas, look at this." Edward walked down the length of the prison cellblock's corridor to the other guard on the third floor. A few of the inmates whose cells he passed weren't sleeping, and his action caught their attention. After Edward's shadow drifted by, they quietly crept to the cell bars, and held out mirrors to monitor from a safe distance one of the institution's most notorious employees, known for breaking rules and inmates' bodies when the warden's back was turned.

They saw him hand a cell phone to Jonas Hodge, who whistled when he read the text message.

"Damn, that's a hell of a lot of money."

"You bet your ass it is." Edward grinned, nodding encouragingly at Jonas.

Jonas shrugged and snickered. "Aw, come on, man. How on earth would you get your hands on that reward? Since the Batman went dark, there ain't no one who can take down the Joker."

Edward nodded. "Right. No _one_ can take him down. It would take a whole posse of killers. Like the ones they got in BHL-1." He smiled.

Jonas felt his stomach turn. Despite the liberal politics of Mayor Garcia, Gotham was still in a conservative state that supported the death penalty. Block H, Level One of the Gotham Maximum Security Penitentiary was where the worst of the worst were kept, biding their time until their number was up. "You gotta be kiddin' me."

Edward held up the cell phone and shook it in Jonas' face, tauntingly. "I got ten million reasons why I ain't kiddin'. Those boys down there just need a little convincing, that's all."

He passed by Jonas, who grabbed his upper arm to halt him. "Don't do it, man. If you get caught, it's your ass. They'll lock you up with the rest of the inmates in gen pop. And you know what _they'll_ do to you, if they get the chance."

Edward swatted Jonas' hand away. "Who's gonna tell 'em? I know you're not dumb enough to rat me out. Are ya?" He moved his hand over the billy club at his belt.

Jonas swallowed, thinking of the last guard who had crossed Edward. That unfortunate man met with an untimely "accident", and was now on permanent disability, taking his food through a feeding tube. Jonas shook his head. "No, I ain't sayin' nothin'."

Edward nodded. "That's what I thought. Fuck this place, man. This reward is my ticket outta here. I could do a hell of a lot with ten million dollars, and I could disappear out of the country before getting caught. If you change your mind and want in on the action, you better act fast. You know where I'll be."

Jonas watched as Edward sauntered to the bank of elevators at the end of the hall. He was making his way to Block H. Both the prison's general population and guards agreed that the H stood for "hell".

It may as well have: Jonas knew that Edward was off to strike a deal with the devil. A whole floor of devils, really.

Edward went forth confidently, with a business proposition for the inmates on Death Row.

________________________________

The Joker bounded over the back of the couch, and Lois craned her neck to follow his movements. "I'll trade ya." She watched him take the Glock 22 out of the back of the kid's jeans he wore, and he handed it to Barker, who gave him something in return.

 _Oh, hell. Is that the camera he was asking for?_ Her heart skipped a beat when he walked around the couch, and she saw that a camcorder wasn't the only thing he was holding.

The Joker had traded the Glock 22 for a single action revolver.

He stuck the gun in the waistband of the jeans behind his back, and leaped over the back of the sofa, landing cross-legged next to Lois. The weight of his body hitting the sofa bounced her upward when the creaky springs released their load.

Lois absently processed that Barker had left the room. She drew her knees up to her chest and hugged her legs to her body tightly, viewing the Joker with apprehension. She could feel welts forming where her body had struck the edges of the steps from her fall.

He put the camcorder in his lap and leaned in. "Well, Sweet Tart-ah, you're about to be in for quite a show. I promise you _shock_ and _horror_ and _scandal!_ " His hands fluttered about him dramatically, and his voice had crescendoed like that of a circus ringmaster. "So in preparation for your, um… your enter _tain_ ment, I want to… loosen you _up_ a bit, first. With a little game, and maybe some refreshments."

He paused to see if it were sinking in. "You look tense. I want to make sure that you're going to be good and ah, _receptive,_ to what you're going to watch. See, I'm thoughtful like that." He nodded in a self-congratulatory gesture.

Lois was confused. _Loosen me up so I can watch something? What the hell does_ that _mean?_

He smiled with closed lips, and a threatening laugh rumbled from his chest. "Just you wait." He leaned in and whispered, "It's gonna be a _doozy._ " He winked at her.

Lois pressed herself further into the couch to distance herself from him.

He held out both of his hands toward her, fists closed and palms facing downward. "Pick a hand." She eyed him mistrustfully. He had an eager expression on his face, like a kid who hoped a parent would humor him with engagement. "C'mon, pick one."

Her eyes fell to his left hand. She pointed at it. "That one."

He shook his head. "Nuh uh. You're not doing it right." He shook both hands up and down. "You have to tap the back of the hand you choose."

His childishness continued to confound her. Lois frowned, and reached for his left hand, not wanting to touch him if she could avoid it. "This one." She tapped the back of his left hand with her fingertips.

His movements were as quick as a striking cobra.

Before she could retract her hand, he swiped with his right and seized her wrist with it. He pulled her toward himself with a swift yank, and her head snapped back from the quick jolt. When the momentum carried her head forward again, they were face to face.

"Well, Sweet Tart, you _do_ have an appetite for danger, don't you?" He turned his left hand over and opened it up.

There was a single bullet cradled in his palm.

He raised his eyebrows at her and licked his lips. "Won't this be fun- _ah_?"

She pushed herself away from him as he released her wrist. He reached behind him and pulled the revolver from his waistband. He opened the cylinder, pushed the bullet into one of the chambers, gave it a good spin and then swung the cylinder back into position with a flick of his wrist. He aimed the gun at Lois.

He picked up the camcorder and brought it up to his shoulder.

"Here's how my little game works. I'm going to ask you six questions. You're going to answer them. If you lie to me, I pull the trigger." He tucked his lips in as he considered the gun in his hands. "I'd _suggest_ that you don't lie. M'kay? One of the chambers has a little something inside of it." He frowned, as if in deep concentration. "And if I shoot you, you won't be able to appreciate the show afterwards." He nodded and raised his eyebrows. (smack) "Because you'll either be in a lotta pain, or you'll be dead. Get it?"

Lois couldn't imagine why she would knowingly lie and put herself in harm's way, but if she had to, she knew she had a good poker face. You had to, if you were a reporter who backed powerful people into awkward corners. She felt her confidence wax. This was more her arena, fielding tough questions. "Okay, no problem."

"Goo _d_." He nodded. Then, a screeching cackle burst from the depths of his lungs, and he started bouncing on the couch. "This is gonna be such a _special_ video. See, it's for a good friend of mine."

He clicked the camera on, and pointed it at himself. He spoke in a low, gravely voice. "Hello, Batman. This video is not for the Gee Pee Dee, and it's not for Gee See En. It's for you, my friend. All for you. You remember that lady from the other videos? Mizzzz Lois Lane? Well—" (smack) "—I haven't killed her. _Yet._ As you can see." The Joker turned the camera around and zoomed in on Lois' tear-stained face. "Wave to the Batman, Lois."

Lois didn't wave. She slowly blinked and turned her face down toward the floor. The Joker scolded her. "You know, for someone who works in television, you're doing a lousy job of engaging the viewer, toots."

He bounced up from the couch and turned the camera on himself. "Well, I'm going to try to change that. Get her to show some reactions that will _engage_ the viewer." He circled the coffee table, setting the camera down on the overturned box. He leaned his face down to ensure that the frame was capturing the full length of the couch. Once he made his adjustments, he got down on all fours on the floor, and stuck his face in the frame, filling up the screen.

"I've got a special game lined up, and I thought that you'd, ah, like to watch." He smiled and ran his tongue over his lips. "That is, if you're _into_ watching games. You know," he touched the tip of his tongue to the middle of his upper lip, then retracted it. "Foreplay. We'll see if you're a voyeuristic bat or no _t_."

Lois stiffened. _What?_

The Joker turned his head to look back at Lois, the gruesome scar on the left side of his face filling the camera frame. Then he moved back from the camera, and brought the revolver around, placing it in view of the camera. "Let's see if I end up banging her or not."

He came back over to the couch, sat on the opposite end from Lois, and kicked off DJ's sneakers. Lois watched as he wriggled his toes inside of the teenager's dingy athletic socks. Stretching his legs out on the cushions, he crossed his feet at the ankles. He kept his hand on the revolver, resting casually on the back of the couch. "All right, then. Question number one." He narrowed his eyes and ran his tongue along the outer corner of his mouth. "Why did you come to Gotham?"

Lois paused. Had that been earlier in the evening? She had lost her sense of time. It felt as though she'd been trapped in hell for days. "I came to interview Bruce Wayne." She didn't volunteer any more information. He didn't blink as he watched her, and it was unsettling.

"Nooooooo… that's not a complete answer. _Why_ did you come to Gotham… to interview Bruce Wayne?"

 _Oh, shit. Poker face, Lo._ "Bruce Wayne called me to tell me he had further information about you, which I could find useful. He said that it was enough to fill another episode of _Metropolis Live."_

His expression didn't change. He sat in silence. He considered her answer, and studied her face.

"Mmm hmmm. And you, being the, ah, eager little busy _beaver_ that you are, you just jumped at the chance to gather more dirt so you could run another show– " he placed his left hand on his chest, "-at _my_ expense, so you could knock out your competition in the ratings game for a second consecutive night."

It wasn't a question. It was a statement. A truth.

Lois shrugged and looked away. "Yeah."

"Loissss?" His voice coaxed her to meet his expression. She turned her face back to him.

He lifted the gun so the barrel was level with her eyes, and pulled the trigger.

A click resounded when the hammer snapped shut on a hollow chamber.

Lois jumped backward, stunned. "Why did you _do_ that?"

"You lied to me." His voice was plain and matter of fact. "When you lie, I pull the trigger. That's how the game works." He turned to face the camera, talking to it as if it really were the Batman. "That's how the game works," he repeated. He looked back at Lois. "Getting dirt on me isn't the _only_ reason you drove all the way from Gotham to meet with Bruce Wayne." A knowing smile played on his lips.

Lois eyed the gun, knowing that the cylinder had rotated, and there was a twenty percent chance that the bullet was in the next chamber. "What if I had chosen your right hand, when you asked me to pick a hand?"

He shrugged his shoulders. "Then we'd be playing Yahtzee, of course. I've got the game around here somewhere." He motioned in a circle with the revolver, before training it on Lois again. "But you didn't choose my right hand. You chose my left hand, so this is the game we're playing."

Lois swallowed. _Naturally, I'd pick the hand with the bullet._

"Question number t—oh, goody!" He grinned as Barker returned to the room carrying the two boxes of pizza, and a sack with the bottle of Jaegermeister in it. "Right over here, little pal." He motioned for Barker to set the pizzas down on the floor by the couch. As Barker crossed in front of him, the Joker leaned forward. "Uh, Barker, you're blocking the camera's view of me."

Barker gasped, horrified that he had unwittingly displeased the man he idolized. "Sir! Mr. Joker, I am so sorry!" He scooted off to the side, in front of Lois.

The Joker nodded. "That's better." It didn't matter if Lois was blocked from the camera's view. Obscuring him, however, was inexcusable.

Barker dutifully opened the pizza boxes, and pulled the liquor bottle from the bag and set it down.

The Joker paused when he saw the Jaegermeister bottle still intact. "Huh." He stuck his tongue out of his mouth to the side, and bit it in thought. Then he shrugged his shoulders and snickered. "I thought the kid broke it." He turned toward Lois, and wrinkled his brow and mouth in an exaggerated show of remorse. "Oops, I guess I shot that kid for nothing." He watched Lois' face for a reaction. Her disgust was thinly veiled.

"What?" He scoffed. "It was a clear-cut case of B and E." Lois didn't look convinced. He scowled at her. "Y'know, if I were any other citizen of Gotham defending my home against an intruder, you'd say that I was within my rights. But because it's _me,_ you think that I'm a murderer." He looked at the camera. "I was just defending myself, Batman." He nodded with his eyebrows raised. "Honest. Those boys could have been after anything. For all I know, they came here to violate me because I'm so damned good-looking. A pretty boy like me just has to defend his virtue. You probably wouldn't understand that," (smack) "so take my word for it. You wear a mask, so you could look like Quasimodo, for all I know."

Lois eyed the food, not wanting to engage him any further regarding the dead kid. She watched him pull out a slice from the pizza with the double anchovies box, and cram half of it in his mouth. "Have some," he directed with a full mouth, keeping the gun aimed in her general direction. Lois didn't answer, rubbing the welts on her forearms.

"Mmm… salty fishies." With a few more bites he'd eaten the rest of the slice up to the crust. He threw it over his shoulder onto the floor, wiping at his mouth with the back of his hand. "Hey, I know a joke about Quasimodo. One day, Quasimoto breaks free of the tower and starts running around the streets of Paris, scaring people because he's so ugly. He runs by a tailor's shop. One tailor turns to the other and says, 'Do you know who that was?', and the other tailor says, 'I don't know his name, but his face rings a bell.'" The Joker raised his eyebrows. "Eh? Good one, huh?"

Lois didn't react. The Joker frowned at her and sulked. "Jeez, you need a sense of humor."

Barker had returned to his post beside the Joker's duffle bag. The Joker tipped his head toward the boxes. "You can have a slice, too, Barker."

Lois could hear the swell of appreciation in the little man's voice. "Oh, thank you, Mr. Joker!" Barker walked over, in front of Lois, and took a slice of pizza. He started to sit down, when the Joker's voice stopped him in his tracks. "No. Out. Get out, now. This is between me and her and…" he nodded in the camera's direction, "… _him_."

Crushed, Barker nodded in defeat and left the room. Lois noted Barker's dejection. Under difference circumstances, she might even have felt sorry for him.

The Joker cocked his head to the side. "Question number two: did Bruce Wayne dump you before or after he got you in the sack?"

Lois blinked twice, not thinking she'd heard the question correctly. She squinted her eyes at him and her mouth opened in disbelief. "What?"

"You heard me. Before or after?"

Lois scoffed. "Neither! I've never slept with Bruce Wayne. I've never even been on a date with him!"

He shrugged his shoulders. "Well, technically you don't have to go on a _date_ to bump uglies with someone."

 _This lunatic is such a disgusting lowlife._ "I've never slept with him, okay?" She could feel the blood rush to her face in indignation.

"Ah," the Joker nodded, "because he dumped you first, before it got that far."

"We've never dated!" Her fists were clenched.

"Really? See, I think the two of you would make a _smashing_ couple: the billionaire playboy with rocks in his head, and the comely, if vapid, television reporter. Your last names even rhyme." He nodded. "You two would make a good match."

"Well, you're wrong! I've never dated that arrogant son of a bitch, and I never would."

"Hmmm." The Joker closed one eye, and brought the gun up to aim it at Lois' face. She clenched her teeth.

"Okay, I believe you." He tilted the gun back so the barrel pointed toward the ceiling. "Whatever grudge you're holding against Bruce Wayne, you might want to see a counselor. Maybe consider an anger management group-ah."

Lois glared at him, cursing him in her head. "He ditched a good friend of mine in the middle of a function he had invited her to, and left with another woman. My friend was devastated."

"Uh huh," he smirked. "If yoooooooooou say so."

Lois regretted not shooting the Joker in the back when he first handed her the gun to guard Curtis.

The Joker reached for the bottle of Jagermeister and opened it. He took a brief swig, keeping his eyes on Lois. Then he extended his arm toward her. "Have a drink."

Lois sneered. "No thanks."

He raised the gun again. "That wasn't a polite offer, Sweet Tart."

She reluctantly took the bottle from him. His smile had vanished and he was watching her like a hawk. She wiped at the mouth of the bottle with the sleeve of her shirt, and tipped the bottle back to her lips. After a sip, she wrinkled her face from the sting of the alcohol. She tried handing him the bottle back, but he wouldn't take it. "Drink a mouthful. You need it, Tartlette."

 _Hell, I probably do._ She tilted the bottle back again, and felt the burning liquid fill her mouth. Her eyes started to water, and she gulped down all that was in her mouth. She started to cough, and he took the bottle from her. "That's more like it." He nodded his approval, and took another drink himself.

He looked at the camera. "So, bringing you up to speed, I think Lois lied on the first question. But I think that she told the truth on the second question, even though she got a little bit testy and bitchy when she answered." He swung his gaze over to Lois. "Didn'cha?"

Lois scowled at him. He looked back at the camera. "See? She's still being bitchy right now. Four more questions to go, and, ah, five more chambers in the cylinder to play with."

He eyed her, thinking of the second video he had shot earlier, and decided to pursue another uncomfortable subject that she had avoided. He knew it would make her squirm.

And _that,_ in turn, would make _the Batman_ squirm when he watched this video.

Making people squirm was fun.

"Question number threeeeee. Mizzzz Lane, you deny any romantic involvement with Bruce Wayne. So have you ever had…" he licked his lips, "feelings for _anyone_ you've interviewed?"

Lois stiffened, and closed her eyes. That question hit like a punch to the gut.

He probed further. "You know, the type of feelings that make you feel all warm and tingly inside? All rainbows and unicorns and flowery schoolgirl shit like that?"

She started to shake her head until she heard the hammer cock. "Ah ah _ah,_ Lois. Tell the truth. And I mean feelings for someone _other_ than me. It's fairly obvious how attracted you are to me, but I'm more interested in your…" he cleared his throat, "past endeavors."

Her eyes scanned the ceiling.

The Joker looked at the camera, adding his own aside. "And she really _is_ attracted to me. If you only saw the moves that she was putting on me earlier! Not suitable for general viewing audiences, I can tell you that."

Lois didn't hear the lies he was feeding to the camera. She felt a cry stick in her throat, picturing _him_ , thinking of the last time she'd seen him. He'd been so warm to her, and she'd been so cold to him.

"Tick _tock,_ Lois. Yes or no?"

She closed her eyes, and two tears ran down her face. "Yes." Her voice was hushed.

The Joker leaned in. "Aw, are you crying? I gotta get this on film." He went to the camera and picked it up, walking up to Lois' side. He tapped her on the head with the barrel of the gun. "Look up." She turned her face upward, and he filmed her silently for several seconds, letting the tears speak for themselves. He placed the camera back on the box and returned to the couch. "I believe you."

Lois wiped her eyes and sniffed. The Joker leaned down and picked an anchovy off a slice of pizza. He considered it, and then tossed it at Lois. It hit her in the upper arm, and stuck to her blouse. He picked up another anchovy, throwing that one at her as well. It struck her chin and dropped down to her lap. "What are you doing?" Exhaustion replaced annoyance in her voice. She swiped both fish pieces to the floor.

"Tossing toppings." He picked up two anchovies, eating one and tossing the other at her, which stuck to the front of her blouse on her chest. He bit his lip to keep from laughing. "You, uh, you got a fishie on your boob, there, Lois." He cleared his throat. "Question four."

Lois peeled the fish from her shirt and threw it back at him. He ducked and it sailed over his left shoulder. "Playing with your food shows bad manners." He scoffed and shook his finger at her. "Were you raised in a barn?"

Lois bent her head down to hide her face, cradling her knees.

"Uh, wait, that wasn't my question. My official question for our little game is… _who_ did you have feelings for?" He paused. "No, wait, I didn't say that right. _Whom_ did you have feelings for?" He scratched his head in a dramatic show of consternation. "No, that's still not right. I'm not supposed to end with a preposition. For whom did you have feelings? There, now I sound like a tee-vee reporter!"

She kept her head down.

"Who was it, Sweet Tart, aside from me, of course?"

Lois wouldn't look up, even when she heard the hammer of the revolver cock.

"No answer is the same as a false answer, chickadee. Who was it?"

She shook her head, keeping her face hidden. She couldn't bring herself to say his name, because she knew the tears would start. And the way she felt, they'd never stop.

"Hmmm… okay, then." He leaned over and rested the gun's barrel on the crown on her head. "Wrong response, Lois." He pulled the trigger, and she flinched when it slammed on an empty chamber.

"Looks like you dodged another bullet, Sweet Tart. _Speaking_ of bullets…" He lolled his head back until it touched the couch's armrest behind him. He giggled, and tipped his head down again to look at Lois. "…is the Man of Steel really faster than a speeding bullet? That's not a game question, just an inquiry on my part. So, is he?"

Lois raised her eyes to meet his. There was a wide grin on his face, and his eyes were black with malicious intent.

She could see it on his face.

_He knows. He knows that I care about Superman. He knows, and he's going to get in his jabs where he can._

The questioning continued. "Is he really more powerful than a… a locomotive?" He flicked his tongue out salaciously.

Lois could feel the tears welling in her eyes, threatening to start.

"Here's something else I've wondered." The Joker leaned in conspiratorially. "If he's really strong, like, _freakishly_ strong, like everyone says he is…"

She bit her lip, not wanting to betray anything she knew to this madman.

"…then how do you suppose the guy has sex without shooting some chick clean off his lap from Metropolis all the way to Gotham?"

Lois' jaw dropped. _Why did you just put that visual in my head?_

The Joker went on further, "I mean, since he's supposed to be such a boy scout, maybe that's how he discovered he can fly." (smack) "Maybe he felt guilty about sending women into orbit like missiles each time he shot his wad, and tried to catch them before they hit the ground again. Like trying to catch a pop fly in baseball." He looked up around the ceiling. "I haven't heard of women dropping from the sky in Gotham, so I guess he must be doing a pretty good job of catching them before they hit the ground."

And then it happened. Exhaustion, terror, hunger and the Jaegermeister had weakened Lois to the point of no resistance. With this asinine scenario the Joker was describing, she did the only thing she could.

She started to laugh.

He cocked his head to the side, a glint of triumph in his eyes. "Are you … _laughing,_ Lois?"

_Yes, God help me, I am. I can't help it. That ridiculous picture you've painted…_

And she couldn't stop. She was furious at herself for laughing, but unable to halt her giggles. After everything she'd been through in the evening so far, the visual of a woman flying off Superman's lap like a cannonball from a cannon struck her as absolutely hysterical. It was crude, immature, totally inappropriate, and exactly the dose of levity that she needed.

_This is terrible. Why am I laughing at this? I would never tolerate anyone talking this way about Superman, so why do I find this so funny?_

She knew why. If she didn't laugh, she'd grab the Joker's revolver and try to put a bullet in her own skull, to end the tortuous madness. He knew why she was laughing, as well, and he was glad it finally happened. The Joker needed her to release the resistance she was clinging to. It would make her more malleable.

He looked her up and down as her laughter subsided. This game was working just as he had intended.

When it was time for her lesson, she'd be ready.

"Question five, Sweet Tart. Do you think that a manipulative, lying tart like you deserves to be saved?"

The last of her laughter caught in her throat, and she choked. "What?"

"Does a woman like you, someone who was the catalyst to the killing of countless people and the destruction of a city… does she deserve to be rescued?"

Her face fell. She had been distracted from the turmoil outside of this house, and this was a crushing reminder.

He repeated his question. "Do you deserve to be rescued, Lois?"

_If you say no, you're giving him reason to kill you right here and now. If you say yes, he'll continue his torture to prove you wrong. Do you even care anymore?_

_Do you? Do you care, Lo?_

_No._

"No." Her voice was firm, and she looked him in the face.

He tipped his chin down and raised the barrel of the gun. "Liar." He cocked the hammer. "You think that you _do_ still deserve to be rescued. That you somehow still _matter._ " He aimed the gun in Lois' direction. He pulled the trigger.

The hammer made contact, snapping back on the chamber with the lone bullet. And he knew it.

Which was why he aimed the gun to the side of her head.

The blast was painfully loud, and Lois' head reflexively snapped to the side as the bullet shot past the top of her left ear, just grazing it. Blood started to flow.

She clutched the side of her head, then screamed when she brought her hands to her face and saw blood. The Joker's mood had blackened again. He knew she was lying, and by his own terms of the game, he had to shoot her. But he couldn't afford to kill her yet. He tossed the revolver down onto the floor, as Lois began to rock in the fetal position. She leaned backward into the couch, her head throbbing and ears ringing from the blast.

No sooner had her back made contact with the cushion, and the Joker was upon her. He grabbed her roughly by the shoulders, and dragged her off the couch onto the floor. He pulled her up to her knees, and got down on his, so they were face to face in front of the camera.

He held her head firmly by putting his left hand behind the base of her skull and squeezing. His right hand reached backward for something behind him.

"No more bullets, no more bullets, but the game's not over yet, Sweet Tart-ah. Just one more question for you." She tried to push him away, but he drew his face right into hers. They were nose to nose. "Question number six."

He brought his right hand up to their faces. The glint of metal caught Lois' eye.

A knife.

He tapped the flat of the blade on her left cheek, and licked his lips. "So. Lois." He pulled away from her, only a few inches, and brought the knife up to his own mouth. He traced the scar on his left cheek, from his lips outward toward his ear, then did the same on the right side.

"Want to know how I got these scars?"

________________________________

. . . . . . .

Author's Notes for "Foreplay"

. . . . . . .

_The Joker is exceptionally skilled at reading people's body language, and he remembers everything. Ever since the second video, he'd been waiting to make crude remarks about Superman to get under Lois' skin. He understands all-too well what it means to be infatuated with someone._

_-4ofCups, 2009.03.29_


	38. Into the Funhouse

*** INTO THE FUNHOUSE ***

**Chapter 38**

. . . . . . .

Betrayal.

No matter how masterful the control of his faculties had become, the geyser of rage that sprang from the well of betrayal always boiled just below the surface.

In his darkest of hours, it drove him to the brink of madness.

Prince or pauper, Brahmin or Outcaste, no man is immune to the seething fury that can poison his thoughts and drive him to vengeful action. Any pretense of control during waking hours is razed by the demons of vengeance when the lights go out.

And the demons came to him, myriad in number, when his eyes were closed.

There is a thin line between passion and obsession; a line so obscure that he wasn't really sure when he had crossed it. His passion, once fueled by a perceived camaraderie, was now an obsession propelled by unalloyed rage. Men who cross that line are forever changed, the sovereignty of free will abdicated, actions driven instead by the yearning for something beyond their grasp.

Riches. Power. A neighbor's wife.

The appreciation of an equal.

The attention of a rival.

Or, when that fails… bearing witness to that rival's downfall. Sweeter still…

… _causing it._

All the hours… Jesus, the sheer endless oceans of _time_ he'd devoted… devoted to _him_ … and all he'd asked for in return was acceptance… even a mere _acknowledgment_. A verbalization that they were brothers, if not in blood, then surely by virtue of the exceptional connection they shared.

They were _different_ than other people. They always had been, and always would be.

But no acceptance had ever come. No matter the lengths he'd gone to, to make _him_ see that they had a special bond, the acknowledgement thereof never manifested.

His admiration had soured into resentment, his esteem curdled into bile, and his obsession with the caped figure had long ago invited the demons to take root in the deep caverns of his twisted mind.

As the steady dripping of water can erode even the most resolute of stone, so can the droplets of resentment erode one's sanity. If people knew how obsessed he'd grown over time with the man, surely they'd call him insane.

Many already had. Of course, the ones who had said so to his face ended up – shortly after said transgression – in the obituary column of _The Daily Planet._

A billionaire has that type of power.

Lex Luthor hadn't had many friends in his life. Actually, he hadn't had any. There had been a brief interlude of a few years' time in his twenties when he had brushed with something that was akin to such a relationship, as close as he'd ever come: the short-lived friendship with Clark Kent.

Of course, friendship is founded on trust, and Lex had long suspected that Clark was withholding a secret from him. Over the course of what he was desperate to believe was a mutual friendship, Lex had presented his friend with every opportunity he could, to allow Clark to entrust him with that secret.

But Clark never did.

Lex had discovered Clark's true identity after years of surreptitious digging and investigating, courses of action he never would have been forced into, had Clark only come forward and told him outright who he was. Initially Lex's quest was to prove to himself that Clark was above reproach; that Lex himself had an actual friend in his life, someone not interested in his wealth.

But that quest to validate Clark's virtue as a friend took a turn, and instead became a search to unearth the secret that Lex knew was buried, proof that Clark was just another wolf in sheep's clothing.

Perhaps even something more dangerous.

The eventual revelation that Clark Kent was Superman wasn't half as jarring to Lex as was the irrefutable evidence that Clark had never actually been his friend at all. Raised in the elite fringe of society, Lex had learned to spot a false friend from a good distance. His father Lionel had warned him that people would come to him with smiles painted on their faces, while knives were hidden behind their backs.

Lex had been able to spot all of the pretenders. Except for Clark.

Which was why the revelation of this secret was a betrayal that stung incessantly.

They could have conquered anything together. They could have ruled the world. Instead, they were bitter rivals.

Superman had become Lex's sole purpose for pushing his way through the perfunctory duties of his days, enduring tedious executive council meetings at LexCorp so he could lock himself in his office to track the activities of Superman that were documented on the news. He saved every newspaper clipping and bookmarked every online story.

Lex Luthor was a man of great patience. It had been over three years since he'd found irrefutable proof that a man he once called his only friend had deceived him; posing as an ordinary man when he wasn't acting as the savior of Metropolis.

Yet Lex revealed his discovery to no one. Not even Clark himself was aware that Lex Luthor knew his secret.

Three years.

Lex knew better than to act in haste.

In those first two years after he discovered who Clark Kent really was, Lex thought of nothing but killing Superman. Armed with the knowledge of Superman's secret identity, he combed through the archives of Smallville's newspapers with a renewed sense of purpose. He hired people to unearth anything they could on Clark's past, grilling even the students Clark had called classmates in high school.

For two years, the search had been futile. Clark had covered his tracks well, leaving scant traces of a most unremarkable life behind him.

But it was at the end of the second year of renewed searching when Lex made a discovery that would entirely change his plan for Superman's doom: Lex discovered the existence of a very rare, very precious type of rock.

The discovery coincided with a happening in Gotham.

A happening known as The Joker.

Along with the rest of Metropolis, Lex had followed the news of a man the papers had dubbed 'The Clown Prince of Crime' in their sister city. He had to give this clown credit – the Joker's methods were genius: fostering fear and brushes with anarchy using simple and cheap theatrics. Lex had found detached amusement in the derelict's over-the-top actions, taunting Gotham itself with terror and chaos, all in a quest to bring down the city's hero known as The Batman.

Bring him down, but not kill him.

Shortly before the Joker was apprehended and thrown in Arkham, Lex had obtained an unofficial transcript of the Batman's only known interrogation of the Joker. The transcript was the only one that existed. The exchange had been documented against the commissioner's direct orders, by a Mob-backed, corrupt Gotham police officer named Ramirez. Ostensibly, she had hoped to sell the transcript to the highest bidder to help pay for her mother's hospital bills.

Lex Luthor was the highest bidder. He paid $5.2 million for a single piece of yellow tablet paper, which he knew bore only a fraction of the true happenings inside the interrogation room, written hastily in sloppy form by a guilty hand.

The moment he held the paper in his hands for the first time, Lex knew: it was the best investment he had ever made.

_Ever._

One could make powerful deductions from what was written; but there was one part of the transcript that was more salient than the others: the Joker's reply to Batman:

" _I don't want to kill you. What would I do without you?_ "

The clown saw The Caped Crusader as a player in some sort of cosmic game he envisioned in his head. It wasn't about killing the Batman, it was about bringing him down, for sport. Corrupting the incorruptible.

Damaging him from the inside out.

_From the inside, out._

That night, an epiphany was born.

The Joker's actions cast Lex's pursuit of Superman's demise in a new light. Thanks to inspiration from the clown, it could play out even better than he had ever hoped for.

Armed with a crumpled piece of tablet paper, Lex changed his strategy.

And for the last year, he planned.

Now, he sat in silence, in the protective cocoon of a bullet-proof limousine. The last three years had been leading up to this night. All the work, all the planning… it all hinged on what would happen in the next ten minutes.

After three years, Lex Luthor's thirst for revenge might finally be slaked.

From the darkened interior of the car, he raised his cell phone to his ear and spoke. "Is he still there?"

A crackle of static sounded through the earpiece. The man on the other end of the call leaned backward to peer around the corner of the makeshift cantina wall, viewing a hulking _Daily Planet_ newspaper reporter in profile. "Yes, Mr. Luthor."

Lex nodded, pleased with the confirmation he sought. He looked out the tinted window to the deserted street corner, scanning for passers by. "All media outlets still silenced?"

"Yes, sir, no internet connections, satellite calls or news broadcasts have been allowed at the station."

"Good. Stand by. I will let you know whether to proceed. Be on the ready."

"Yes, sir."

Lex cut off the call, and turned to the man sitting next to him. An open laptop rested on his knees, with a proprietary software program running. Lex handed the man his cell phone.

"Do it."

The man nodded in obsequious silence, connecting the phone to a USB port.

Lex cocked his head to the side and watched the man's fingers dance in a flurry of movement across the keyboard. Lex drew a deep breath slowly, in a concerted effort to control the quickening of his own heart rate. He raised his hand to the breast pocket of his jacket, drawing solace as he traced the outline of the concealed gun.

It wasn't often that Lex Luthor felt excitement, but this was one of those rare moments. Depending on the outcome of the next phone call, revenge on the man he'd once known as a friend could be within his grasp.

In fact, he was on the precipice of altering history itself, not unlike Alexander the Great, for whom he was named.

His namesake had bent history to his will with the might of swords forged from iron ore, a massive cavalry and legions of dedicated soldiers.

Lex Luthor would also alter history.

Yet for all his money, wealth and influence, he would do so with the might of something so unassuming: a single rock fragment, no bigger than a dime.

________________________________

Without words, the Batman grabbed Jones' arm, retrieving him from the kitchen pantry of Flesh For Fantasy where he'd been hiding. The Batman had returned from his search for Wallace. Jones knew the fact that he'd come back alone didn't bode well.

As they exited the building, Jones nearly stumbled down the stairs to the alley. The man in black ahead of him was striding with purpose, dragging him along in tow. As they headed toward the back of the alley, Jones saw an ominous black vehicle obscured by a dumpster. The Batman was dragging him toward it.

"W—what happened in there? Where's Wallace?"

The Batman said nothing until they were out of sight from the building. He stopped at the side of his vehicle, and turned to look down at Jones. He could read the fear in the man's tired eyes. "Your friend is dead."

Jones swallowed. He had suspected as much. "How did they—I mean, what happened to him?"

The Batman narrowed his eyes. "They didn't leave much of his face to be identified, but the body I saw was your friend. It looked like his death was quick, but he suffered before he was killed."

Jones felt his stomach knot up. _If I hadn't abandoned Wallace in there, I'd be dead, too. Being a spineless coward is what just saved my ass._ He felt hollow.

The Batman crossed his arms across his chest. "I overheard that Vincent Maroni's daughter was murdered this evening."

"Oh my God." Jones' eyes grew wide, perceiving an accusation. He held up his hands in front of him and backed away. "It wasn't me, I swear to God!"

The Batman shook his head. "I know it wasn't you. It was the work of Sergei Kruzynski."

Jones' mouth dropped open. "The Belarussians murdered the daughter of Gotham's Mob boss?"

A single nod from the large figure. Jones shrugged his shoulders. "Why would they be bold enough to do that?"

Before he could reflexively shield himself, the Batman grabbed Jones by the shoulders and slammed him against the side of the vehicle. His voice was coarse and accusatory. "Because the Belarussians wanted revenge! They believed that the Mob had double-crossed them in an arms deal. But it _wasn't_ the Mob – someone _else_ stepped in and stole the weapons. Know anyone bold enough to do _that_?"

Even in the dim light, Jones could see the man's eyes behind his mask. They were black orbs of fury. Jones' mouth started to tremble. His voice failed him. He forced a weak nod. Of course he knew someone bold enough to orchestrate that.

They both did.

The Batman continued, "The Mob knows that the Joker intercepted the weapons that they were selling to the Belarussians. Kruzynski's men _didn't_ know about the Joker. They thought the Mob had the stolen weapons, so they burned Maroni's daughter alive in her car this evening as revenge."

"Oh, Jesus…"

"We need to act fast." The Batman leaned his face forward. "Maroni knows that the Joker and… and his _men—"_ he squeezed Jones' shoulders painfully tight to make his emphasis, "—were actually the ones who took the weapons. He's laying the blame for his daughter's murder at the Joker's feet, along with responsibility for the street war between the Mob and the Belarussians. Maroni has put a bounty on the Joker. He wants him brought in alive, so he can torture him. Word is going out to everyone in Gotham's underworld of crime, and it won't be long before it spreads outside the city, if it hasn't already."

Jones stared up at the Batman in disbelief. Everything about this evening was surreal. Things just kept getting worse, in ways he couldn't have dreamed of.

"Jones," the Batman took pains to take the edge off his voice, "you are one of the few people who knows the Joker's location. How many other men work for him?"

Jones looked upward, making a mental tally. "S'about nine, nine of us that I know of. Well—" he looked over at Flesh For Fantasy, thinking of Wallace's body inside. "Eight, now."

"This is important. How many of them are with him now?"

Jones tried to focus. He and Wallace were supposed to meet back around 1:00 am. He looked at his watch and silently cursed. "Wallace and I were supposed to be back there in about five minutes. There should be two others with him." Barker wouldn't have left the lair, and Curtis likely would have returned by now. "Yeah, two at the most. The others are still…" he nodded his head to the side, "… out _there._ "

"Maroni is offering a ten million dollar reward for the Joker. I believe that's a big enough incentive for some of his own men to turn on him. They may team up with others to bring him down, if word of this reward reaches them. Any man greedy or brazen enough to go after the Joker for that sum of money will kill anyone who gets in his way." The Batman clenched his jaw. It was bad enough that Lois was in danger from the Joker's actions, but she could easily end up a casualty of a money hungry bottom feeder looking to nab the Joker for the reward.

"Jones, you need to take me to where the Joker is hiding. It's more important than ever that we get to Lois Lane. You need to lead me to her."

Jones' eyes widened and he blanched. "N—no! No! No way, man! If I show you how to get there, the Joker will know that I've sold him out! He'll kill me! He'll cut me to pieces!"

"No he won't, I can protect you from him."

Jones' eyes went empty, and his voice grew quiet. "No, you really can't."

The Batman was growing weary. "Listen to me. I am asking for your help. I _can_ protect you… but I can't protect Lois Lane. Not unless I find her, and you know as well as anyone what the Joker is capable of. Help me get to _her_. I promise I will do everything I can to keep you safe from him."

Jones felt defeated. What choice did he have? His conscience was already stained with the blood of everyone on the Gotham Expressway. He couldn't bear another unnecessary death. She wasn't just a faceless person. He'd seen her, up close. He'd seen the fear in her eyes.

"How are you going to protect me if I help you?"

The Batman stiffened, then opened the top of the tumbler prototype. "I'm calling for back up. Get in."

________________________________

Jim Gordon's pallor had gone completely grey.

After the first signs of the heart attack, Detective Joe Murdock helped remove Commissioner Gordon's jacket and tie, and unbuttoned the top of his shirt to help him breathe easier. Murdock kept an eye on the weakened man, and was more than a little nervous about the situation. Gordon appeared to be on death's doorstep. Nearly an hour had passed since the first signs of distress. Murdock concluded that the aspirin he'd forced Gordon to take must have aided in his condition, but the commissioner clearly was still in a precarious state.

Murdock jumped when he heard a knock on the door, and the doorknob turned from the outside. The door swung open and uniformed men wheeled in a gurney. He barked his annoyance. "It's about damned time you got here!" Murdock stepped to the side to allow the EMT group access to Gordon.

"Sorry, sir, the streets out there are chaos, thanks to all the bombs the Joker has been setting off. Traffic is gridlocked in most areas."

A faint smirk crossed Murdock's face. "You don't have to tell _us_ about that."

Two of the technicians lifted Gordon from his chair and placed him on the gurney. Gordon's eyes were half open. He tried to say something, but only a faint wheezing passed over his lips. One of the medical workers put an oxygen mask on him, noting the glazed look in the commissioner's eyes. He looked over his shoulder at Murdock. "Has anyone contacted a family member for this man yet?"

Murdock rubbed his neck. "No. I didn't know how serious it was, and I didn't want to alarm his wife unnecessarily."

The technician frowned. "Sir, I'd advise that you call his family immediately."

Joe walked over to Gordon's discarded jacket, as the gurney was wheeled out the door. "Which hospital are you taking him to?"

"Gotham Mercy East." They moved Gordon down the hallway fast, past the stunned faces of some of the squad's onlookers. As Joe picked up Gordon's jacket, he could hear a cell phone ring from inside one of the pockets. Fumbling through jacket flaps, he located the phone and held it up in front of his face to read the caller ID display: UNKNOWN. He looked at the phone suspiciously, and let it ring once more. He decided to answer it, doing his best to harden his Midwest accent into something more like Gordon's.

"Yeah?"

A deep voice came through.

"I'm going to need back-up after all. Vincent Maroni has put a bounty on the Joker's head…"

Murdock furrowed his brow. The voice was gravelly.

"…the Joker was behind the Mob-Belarussian arms deal that went south. The Mob found out, and Maroni wants his revenge…"

The voice was distinctive. Murdock strained to recall where he'd heard it before.

"…I need undercover back up sent to Flesh For Fantasy. Maroni will likely want the Joker brought to him there. One of the Joker's men was just killed there. Name was Wallace…"

Murdock's eyes grew wide as he made the connection, as the voice on the other end continued.

_Holy mother of God. It's the Batman._

Murdock scanned the office in disbelief. _Gordon. Commissioner-fucking-Gordon has kept the Batman's connection to the Gotham Police Department all this time._ After the city declared the Batman a fugitive a year earlier, and the signal light was dismantled atop the Major Crimes Unit, Mayor Garcia had kept an especially close eye on Gordon. He knew that the Batman had collaborated under the table with Gordon's men in an unofficial capacity before going rogue. Garcia would tolerate no associations thereafter. He had threatened Gordon's job, should any continued connection be discovered.

Murdock smiled. If the heart attack didn't kill Gordon, the shame of being booted off the force and arrested for obstruction of justice likely would. The irony was pretty damned funny.

"…I have a man named Jones with me now. He's going to take me to the Joker, so I can move him for his own protection. Every bounty hunter in the city will be gunning for him..."

Murdock stiffened. _What? Did he just say, 'Jones'? Jones is collaborating with the Batman to cough up the Joker's location? Oh, that'll go over well. I need to get word to the Joker immediately, so he can get the hell out of Dodge before the Batman and that turncoat Jones show up._

A moment of silence passed. Nothing from the other end. The Batman clenched his fist in concern. _Something isn't right._ "Gordon."

Murdock answered, too stunned to feign posturing as Gordon. "Uh, no. This is Detective Murdock."

The caped figure's anger flared, cursing himself for speaking before he confirmed Gordon on the line. _God damn it! I gave up too much to someone I don't even know. I_ know _better than that. Now Gordon's job is on the line._ He wouldn't allow his own weariness as an excuse for dropping his guard. It was time to put it back up again. "Detective Murdock," the menace was back in his voice. He paused before continuing. "Why are you answering Gordon's phone?"

"Gordon had a heart attack. The EMT's just wheeled him away."

The Batman stood motionless, stunned and sickened by the revelation. He collected himself as quickly as he could. "When did this happen?"

 _I can't believe I'm talking to the Batman on the police commissioner's cell phone. The Joker would shit a brick._ "About an hour ago, after the press conference covering the Joker's rampage across the city. He's on his way to the hospital."

The Batman pursed his lips. For this detective to have access to Gordon's phone, they must be working closely together. Gordon must trust him. That meant that he'd have to trust the man, also. With the city going to hell, he had no other choice. "Murdock, listen. I need your help, and Gordon needs your help. Can you get undercover officers to Flesh For Fantasy?"

Murdock bit his lip to keep the smirk from coming through his voice. "I don't know, we're stretched pretty thin with everything that's happening tonight." He was fucking with the Batman. It was fun. The Joker would be proud.

"Do whatever you can to get a team over there, if at all possible. If the Joker is brought there, we need to be able to get to him before Maroni does. And Murdock…"

"Yes?"

"You got this information from an anonymous tip through the emergency lines. There's no need for Jim to lose his job over this."

 _If he survives his heart attack._ Murdock closed his eyes and lied. "I completely agree. I won't tell anyone about this call."

The connection went dead. Murdock smiled, looking at the cell phone in his hand. This night just kept getting better and better. He planned not to tell any of the other officers about the call, nor would he dispatch any undercover units to Flesh For Fantasy, either. One call to the Joker to warn him of the Batman's impending arrival would negate the need for backup at Flesh For Fantasy, anyway. If the Joker were forewarned, no one could catch him to bring him to Maroni.

Murdock did, however, want to ensure that Mayor Garcia knew of Gordon's continued connection with the Batman. Revealing Gordon's concealed collaboration with the vigilante would surely end in disgrace for Gordon.

He decided to make that call first. Joe Murdock dialed the mayor's office, smiling to himself as he envisioned Garcia's livid reaction at the disclosure of Gordon's betrayal.

Barbara Gordon never received the call that her husband had suffered a heart attack.

________________________________

He licked his lips and nodded, the pink tongue working its way over the smeared red color. "That was question number six of our little game, Loissss. Answer it truthfully."

Lois tried to recoil from his grasp, but he gripped her tighter as he leaned his face into hers. Both of them were on their knees in front of the camcorder, which was extremely painful for her. Her weight was directly on her kneecaps, which she'd hit on the step's edge when she fell on the staircase.

He cocked his head to the side. "Yes? Or no?" He poked his tongue alternately on the inside of his left cheek, then his right, bulging out the scars of his Chelsea grin. "Wanna know the history of 'em or not?"

Her eyes darted back and forth from the left to the right side of his cheeks, then back again to the left. The scars seemed to jump off his face, the relief of them raised high off the otherwise smooth surface of his skin.

_He may not have bullets left, but he can still hurt you. Answer him truthfully, Lo. The truth._

Lois cursed herself for a curiosity that had gotten her into more trouble than she could recount. She answered truthfully.

"Yes."

The Joker's faint smile faded. He looked at her, unblinking. His stare was so intense she felt her own face burn in self-conscious embarrassment. He scanned her eyes. There was no trace of guile there. She was telling the truth.

Lois Lane wanted to hear the story.

The wicked smile returned, stretching his mouth to hideous proportions across his face. "Yes, you _do_ want to hear the story. Of course you do." (smack) He nodded for emphasis. "A good reporter always wants to get to the root of any good story."

 _Oh, I'll give you a story, all right. And not just_ any _story._

 _You're gonna get_ THE _story, toots._

Lois winced as he tapped the edge of the knife on her bottom lip, her neck still held tightly in the grip of his left hand. "This is a _good story,_ Sweet Tart-ah. And I promise you something." He tipped his chin downward, regarding her with narrow eyes under a knotted brow. He leaned in and whispered in her ear: "I won't leave. One. Single. Thing. Out. I'm going to tell you _eeeverrrrrything-ah."_

The Joker pulled back and looked her squarely in the face. " _Everything_ , Lois. Just for you." He curled in his lips, then turned his head toward the camera, addressing it directly. "And. For _him._ "

He shifted on his knees and took a deep breath, closing his eyes. "Do you know what the inside of a foster home looks like inside Gotham's Narrows?"

Lois couldn't tell if the question were rhetorical or not. He opened his eyes and looked at her. She faintly shrugged her shoulders.

"Well I can tell you, it's not pretty. If you're lucky, the family you're placed with neglects you altogether. If you're not so lucky, they give you special attention. The kind that comes from belts, fists and cast iron skillets. Me… I wasn't so lucky." He narrowed his eyes at her.

Lois scowled. _And you want me to pity you for that?_ "So you were abused by your foster family. That happens to a lot of kids." Lois knew she was treading on thin ice, but she wasn't about to let the trite victim's excuse of abuse conjure any unwarranted sympathy.

"True. But my story isn't about the cracker jack job the social services department in Gotham does, so don' _t_ interrupt me again. Got it?"

His eyes went cold. Lois nodded her understanding. The Joker blinked and continued.

"So when you're a kid of about sixteen, and your foster father beats the shit out of you for any…" he fluttered his hand in the air that held the knife, " _perceived_ slight, you look for ways to escape. Figuratively, or literally. I chose literally." His tongue poked forward to swipe the front of his right incisor. "One day, a carnival came to Gotham. I didn't really find my way into the classroom much anyhow, so I decided to pay a visit on a school day. I hopped a fence and snuck in the back of the grounds. A kid named Jasper caught me, a kid around my age. He threatened to have me kicked out, but I told him that if he let me stay, I'd work along side of him for the day. He agreed."

The Joker cleared his throat. "Jasper had dropped out of school and was traveling with this carnival. Came to find out our situations were similar. I decided that if he could do it, so could I." He smiled with mischief. "I never went back to that foster home. Jasper and I became friends, and we stuck together. When we weren't working the carnival's ferris wheel, we worked at the shooting gallery. You know, the one with the metal duckies that go by, and you have to shoot 'em with a b.b. gun."

Lois knew what he was talking about. She could take anyone at that game, hands down.

"So I get to know this kid, and he shows me the ropes. Shows me which of the workers are okay fellas, and which ones… weren't. The, ah, the men who worked the funhouse?" He nodded wide-eyed at Lois. With a small motion, he shook his head. "No _t_ nice guys. Many had ties to some pretty bad people. Criminals. Most of them were ex-cons themselves, and some had served time in prison. One of them for…" the Joker lowered his voice, "touching little girls who didn't ask to be touched. He did some pretty un _sa_ vory things to bigger girls, too." Lois unconsciously furrowed her brow. The Joker noticed. "That guy's name was Smitty. He got out of prison on a technicality of screwed up Miranda rights. His drinking buddy went by the name of Vegas. Vegas was a fat drunk with a temper, who'd served time for assault and battery. He also liked to use animals and cops for target practice. We, uh, steered clear of them and the others.

"After a week, it was time for the carnival to pack up and move on to the next city. _Metropolis_." The Joker cocked a smile on the left side of his face. "Your… _neck—"_ he squeezed her neck tightly, "—of the woods, so to speak. So as Jasper and I were helping the crew disassemble the ferris wheel for the move, I accidentally unscrewed a bolt that shouldn't have been unscrewed. A steel supporting arm came off the ride, tipped over and nearly crushed two men who worked the funhouse as they were walking by."

Lois didn't realize it, but she was completely captivated by the Joker's story.

The Joker shook his head and looked off to the side, mocking a fond recollection of a memory. "And it was just. My. _Luck…_ " he looked at Lois again, "that it was Smitty and Vegas. That close call pissed them off. A lot. So, they came at me. Vegas had a beer bottle in his hand and he broke it, to use it to cut me up."

Lois felt her own eyes widen, as she envisioned a sixteen-year-old kid having his face sliced by a broken bottle. "Oh," she offered in a small voice, looking off to the side.

The Joker shook his head. "No, you don't understand. _That's…_ not how it happened."

Lois looked at him again. "Then what did happen?"

Lois was nearly deafened by the Joker's manic burst of laughter. "Lois! I've been waiting _all night_ for you to ask me that! I thought you never would!"

He curled his lips in, covering his teeth, and his eyes grew wide. He started to rock back and forth, trying to stifle his own laughter. The Joker started looking around the room, up in the air, at nothing in particular. His apparent disconnection was completely unsettling. Lois tried to trace his glance to see what he was looking at, but he held her head firmly in place.

But she did see Barker. He had returned and was standing up against the wall behind the Joker, watching them. _No, watching_ him.

The Joker seemed to be staring off into nothingness, and when he spoke, Lois couldn't tell if it were to her or to himself. "This is a very ironic tale, Lois. The fact that… _it…_ happened in Metropolis. And here _you_ are." His eyes were at half-mast, as if he were in a drunken stupor. He repeated himself. "In. Metropolissss."

Barker made a noise like a whimper. Lois could see him over the Joker's shoulder. He put his hands up on either side of his clown mask over his ears. He shook his head, as if he were a child that didn't want to hear something frightening. Then he slowly slid down the wall until he was sitting in a fetal position on the floor. He started to rock, keeping his hands over his ears.

Something about that visual frightened Lois.

_Jesus, what kind of a madhouse is this place?_

The Joker found his focus again, and returned his attention to Lois. "Smitty and Vegas didn't do anything that night, after the beam nearly hit them. The carnival manager came running when he heard the crash and intervened before the men could hurt me. I was given a warning about being more careful, and the men were told to keep away from me. The problem was… Jasper. He had a way of making me laugh at _inappropriate_ times. The fat drunkard, Vegas, he was really, _really_ a fat ass. I mean, morbidly obese-kind of fat. I'm guessing he tipped the scales at around 325 or so. Maybe even more. Jasper made a comment" (smack) "likening the guy's ass cheeks to a hippopotamus' smile, and I started laughing.

"They heard me, and turned to see me laughing at them. So Vegas asks me, 'Hey, faggot, what's so fuckin' funny?'" The Joker's eyes clouded with anger. He worked his mouth for a moment, eyeing Lois. "I didn't have a clever comeback. I stopped laughing, but I just couldn't. Stop. _Smiiiiling._ That's when Smitty told me that if I got in their way again, he'd _give_ me something to smile about."

The Joker licked his lips, and then drew them back, exposing a mouthful of yellowed teeth. They looked more than ever like fangs. He looked like a rabid dog to Lois. Keeping his teeth exposed in a skull-like grimace, he closed his eyes. His voice dropped in register. "And _did. He. EVER._ Give me something to smile about." He opened his eyes. "I, uh… heh, I was a marked man, so to speak."

Lois' breath was shallow. She was genuinely on edge because of the story. Not just because she feared to hear the inevitable gruesome end, but by how affected _he_ seemed to be by the story. As if he were reliving memories just by telling it. She was so distracted by him that she forgot the throbbing on the side of her head where the bullet had lightly grazed her as it shot by, only minutes earlier.

"And so we went to Metropolis." He cuffed Lois on the cheek with the hand that held the knife. "Your fair city." She flinched from the sensation.

"We opened on a Monday. For those first five weekdays, public schools had arranged classroom field trips. High schools in Metropolis and the suburbs bussed in kids to spend the day at the carnival. _Hap_ py kids getting a _hap_ py fieldtrip away from their _hap_ py schools to visit the _hap_ py carnival." A crazed look came over his face. "So many damned _hap_ py people. I wasn't used to _hap_ py.

"It was sort of awkward, being the same age as the kids who were visiting the carnival, while Jasper and I were school drop outs. But we managed to have a great time. Whenever we'd go on break, we'd follow groups of students around. Y'know, taunt and threaten the boys, and hit on the girls and make them squeal." His smile broadened. "I'd like to think I never lost that touch." He winked at Lois. Her gaze shifted downward uncomfortably.

The Joker continued anyway. "The last day for high school class field trips came on that Friday. Jasper was working the shooting gallery, and I was on break, walking around. I came up behind three students. Two girls and a boy. One of the _girls…_ " the Joker rolled his eyes and shut them, "I mean, _WOW!_ " His sudden outburst startled Lois, and she felt herself involuntarily shudder. "Talk about a _knock_ -out! She was – unquestionably – the most beautiful girl I had _ev_ er seen in my life." He nodded and tipped his had to the side. "In fact, to this _day_ I've never seen a prettier girl. Never. No offense, Lois. You're pretty, but you couldn't hold a candle to this girl."

Lois was surprised at how much that remark stung.

"Let's just say that I wasn't the only one who noticed her. Every guy – boy or man – was looking at her. I could tell that her little blonde friend was jealous of the obvious attention, not just from the rest of the guys at the carnival, but from the big dopey guy who was with them." (smack) "As for the beauty herself? She seemed oblivious, like she was totally unaware of what a stunner she was. Of course," the Joker leaned in, "that always makes a girl much more attractive, when she doesn't even know what she's got.

"So I trail her and her friends around from a distance. At one point, she looked back at me. I smiled at her, and she smiled _back."_ The Joker straightened up, his expression earnest. "Up to that point, it was the best moment of my life."

Then his face fell. "Until I heard them say that they wanted to go into the funhouse."

Lois saw a veil of darkness wash over his face. It was as though someone flipped a switch. His mood grew brooding.

"They stood in line for the funhouse, and all the guys were staring at this girl. Including Smitty. I could see him standing at the entrance, sizing her up. I watched as he walked over to fat ass Vegas, who controlled when the groups could enter the funhouse. Both of them were nodding and smiling as they talked," (smack) "and I can tell you, there was nothing good about their smiles.

"I can see that they're up to something, and they were targeting this girl. Now, see, I'm supposed to be _wor_ king, and they were out for my blood anyway, so there was no way they'd let me in with the rest of the kids. So I waited until I saw this girl and her two friends enter, and I found a utility door to slip through.

"This funhouse wasn't just distortion mirrors and awkward staircases to climb. It was also part freak show and haunted house. There were scary-looking scenes set up, with carny workers dressed as freaks. Some of them wore rubber clown masks, and stalked through the house, jumping out at visitors to scare them. It was all part of the gig."

Lois' focus flitted briefly to Barker, who was still rocking in the fetal position on the floor, hands over his ears. Wearing his rubber clown mask.

"So I'm trying to stay out of sight, but I'm trailing this girl. She gets separated from her two friends by a revolving door, which is supposed to let some people pass into a hallway while keeping others out. I know where the false door is for employees to get into the hallway that she stumbled into, so I use it to slip into the hallway with her. She's standing by herself looking confused, and then a funhouse worker approaches her wearing a clown mask. He grabs her, and yells, 'Boo!'. She screams. Then she smiles and catches her breath, thinking that it's just part of the fun."

He licked his lips. "But it wasn't, Lois. I could tell by the clothes he wore. That clown? The one who grabbed her? Smitty. All funhouses have hidden rooms where the workers can take breaks or change clothes or whack off, or whatever they want to do. He was going to drag her to one of those rooms that was hidden by a staged horror scene."

Lois could feel herself grow tense. She didn't like where this story was headed, and didn't want to hear of someone getting raped. "Okay, that's enough. I don't need to hear any more of the story."

The Joker froze, dumbfounded. "You... w _hat_?"

Lois' voice faltered. "I—I don't want to hear an—"

Her words were cut off by her own cry of pain, as he brought the knife across her cheek, drawing blood. Not deep enough to scar her like him, but deep enough to give her a serious taste of pain.

"You don't _want_ to hear what comes next?" His breath grew heavy, and he fumed in indignation. "You _ask_ me to tell you how I got my _scars_ , and then you have the _gall_ to _interrupt me_ to tell me that you don't want to _hear_ anymore?"

Tears poured from Lois' eyes. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry!"

"No. No you're no _t._ " He regarded her as a falcon would a field mouse. "You think you know what _sorry_ is, Lois? _Do you?_ "

She curled her lips in, to withdraw them from the knife's blade that had returned to her mouth. "I'm sorry, your story f—frightened me. Tell me the rest, and I won't interrupt you again." She swallowed. "I _promise_ I won't interrupt again."

The Joker grew quiet and regarded her with suspicion. "If you interrupt me again, I'll cut out your tongue."

She had no doubt in her mind that he would. "I won't say anything more until you finish."

He smirked at her. "Ask me nicely to tell you the rest. Say 'please'."

Lois' vision was blurred with tears. "Please tell me the rest of your story."

The Joker leaned forward and stopped when his scarred lips were an inch away from her mouth, his eyes boring into hers. "Say. Please. _Nice_ rrrrrr."

She closed her eyes, and spoke as softly as she could. "Pl—please? Please?" She opened her eyes again.

"Mmm hmmm. That's more like it." He drew back and cocked his head to the side. "Okay… where was I?"

Lois exhaled the breath she was holding. "The guy was going to take the girl… somewhere."

"Oh! Right. So, so I can't let this guy _hurt_ her, and she's far too small to defend herself. So I run up behind Smitty and knock him down. I tackle him, and nail him in the groin with my foot as hard as I can. She's standing there confused, not sure if it's part of the fun or if it's serious. I take her by the arm and tell her she needs to find her friends and get out of the funhouse. I bring her back through the revolving door, to her friends, who were still in the first passageway."

The Joker's eyes widened. "And you know what happened next?" He tightened his grip on Lois' neck. She shook her head in frightened anticipation, the cut on her cheek burning.

"You know what my _thanks_ was for saving this girl from getting raped?" He was practically spitting his words at her.

Lois' voice was a whispered reply of uncertainty. "No?"

"That guy she was friends with? The big hulking meathead? He sees my hand around her arm and gets the wrong idea. He steps forward and shoves me by my shoulders. Shoves me _hard._ The kid was stronger than an ox. It felt like two sledgehammers hit my shoulders. BAM! Hard, like that. I go down hard and fast. I land on my back and get the wind knocked out of me. I also hit my head on the floor. WHACK!" Lois shuddered again. "I open my eyes, and things are fuzzy, but I can see the girl looking down at me, like she was concerned. But her friends pulled her away. The, uh, the asshole who shoved me, he gives me one last look before leading the girls around the corner.

"I can't get up. Aside from having the wind knocked out of me, the whack to my head gave me a concussion. And…" his voice went completely flat, "it gave Smitty enough time to catch up to me."

Lois tried to withdraw from his grasp, as if distancing herself from him would stop the story. "And he brought Vegas with him. They picked me up and carried me into one of the hidden rooms, where no one could see me. Or them."

A noise came out of the Joker's mouth, like the bray of a donkey. Lois thought it might be a laugh. She couldn't tell.

"So Smitty begins by returning the favor of a solid kick to my crotch. I'm curled up on the floor in agony: unbearable pain in my groin, my shoulders hurt like hell and there's a throbbing in my head." The Joker slapped the side of his own head several times, hard enough to make a noise, to illustrate his point. "I'd gotten used to taking hits from my foster father, but I had never been in so much pain before."

The Joker started to laugh. Loudly and maniacally. He threw his head backward and his shoulders shook. When he looked at Lois again, tears of laughter wet his eyes. "And I had no _idea_ what true pain was." He suddenly gripped Lois' neck with resolve and brought her face in toward his. His voice crescendoed as he brought the knife up to Lois' mouth. _"Do you know what true pain is?"_

Spittle flew from his mouth and covered her lips. His eyes were wide and feral and they terrified her. If she'd had anything more to drink earlier, she'd have wet her pants from fear right there in front of him. _Oh, Jesus!_ Please _don't let him cut me like he was cut!_

"True _pain_ , Lois, is having your arms held down above your head as you lie on a metal floor, while an obese man sits on your chest, crushes the wind from your lungs, and cracks seven ribs under his weight. _True_ pain is not having the strength or air to scream as your head is held immobile, while someone places a box cutter inside your mouth."

Lois felt herself shake from fear.

" _True pain_ is watching as your vision explodes in blinding white light of agony as you feel the blade sawing back and forth as it cuts through the nerves inside your cheek, and you feel the flap of your own face fold back and exposed to air for the first time." The Joker's own hand began to tremble, the blade of the knife quivering precariously at the edge of Lois' mouth.

"He laughed as he did it. They both did. They said they'd teach me for ruining their fun, and they'd teach me to laugh at them. They wanted to make sure that everyone I came across for the rest of my life thought that I was laughing at them, _taunting_ them, so I would have the _pleasure_ of countless future beatings.

"And when it was done, and I'd nearly passed out from the pain and the blood loss, they put Smitty's rubber clown mask over my head. Then they took me out of the back room and propped me up in one of the staged freak show scenes. Students walked through – by the _hundreds,_ Lois – and saw me there, but none of them knew what had happened to me. They thought I was a drunk carny worker passed out on the job. Not one of them helped me. Not one."

He leaned in and placed his lips on her earlobe and spoke almost inaudibly:

"No _t_. One."

Lois was shaking. It couldn't be true. No one could possibly survive injuries that grievous. He had to be lying. It _had_ to be a fabrication.

"And that was the _point._ They wanted me to be in full view of everyone – for _hours –_ and unable to scream for any help." The Joker pulled back and looked at her again.

In the course of her career, Lois had grilled some of the most polished of two-faced politicians and slick financial sharks. She could spot a liar. There were very, very subtle clues that she knew to look for. Even the best of them had their tells.

But she hadn't spotted one in the entire course of the Joker's story. He was either the best damned liar she had ever seen in her life, and one hell of an actor…

…or the story was actually true.

Maybe it was true. After what she'd seen tonight, she could believe that anything was possible.

"So, _that's_ …." he motioned to his scars, "how I came to be… _meeeeeee._ " He tilted his head to the side. "It's an interesting turn of fate, really. I endure a cathartic change in _your_ city… and you're going to go through a similar change… in _mine-ah._ "

Lois didn't process the hint of what was to come. Her eyes were closed, still trying to process the idea that something so horrific as his story could actually happen to someone, someone so desperately in need of help, in plain sight, yet ignored by everyone… that was one of the most terrifying scenarios she could envision.

Not unlike the situation she was in now. Right in the heart of Gotham, in desperate need of help, but no one could see her.

"D—did…" Lois found her voice had cracked. "Did that really happen? Did those men really do that to you?"

The smile faded from his face, and his visage became unreadable. He tilted his chin down to his chest as he regarded her. He licked his lips, but said nothing.

She was incredulous. "How did you live? How is it even possible for someone to survive injuries like that?"

The Joker dropped the knife to the floor. The clatter of the impact startled Lois, and she felt him grip both sides of her face. He drew in close.

"It's, ah, it's truly _amazing_ what types of physical pain a person can endure. You _learn_ from pain. Pain is the best teacher of them all. And from learning comes growth, Sweet Tart. Always growth."

He leaned his head forward to hers, their foreheads touching. He closed his eyes.

He drew in a deep breath, and let it out slowly. "It's time now, Lois. You're ready to _learn_. You will learn so much. And you will grow. I promise you that."

Yes, he knew she was ready. It had all come to this.

It was time for her lesson.

________________________________

. . . . . . .

Author's Notes for "Into the Funhouse"

. . . . . . .

_(Aw, crap. MORE to read?)_

_Like a funhouse has mirrors that distort, I wanted the beginning of the chapter to provide a bit of a distortion, too; to be presented as if the narration were about the Joker, when in fact, it was actually about Lex Luthor. In doing so, I wanted to establish parallels between their characters, different as they really are. Of course, the funhouse reference is a direct link to the Joker's very own personal hell._

_I don't explain in this chapter HOW Lex Luthor discovered who Clark Kent really is. It's not pertinent to this story, and I didn't want to go too far off course; this is, after all, a story about the Joker._

_And speaking of that... here are my thoughts behind the story the Joker tells to Lois about his scars:_

_First, the location of the event - a funhouse. In Chapter 11, I detail in the Batman's musings just how similar he and the Joker really are to each other. They think alike and they reason alike. So... given that hypothesis that they are two sides to the same coin... wouldn't it be feasible that both created their "masks" for the same reason: to cope with a traumatic fear by trying to "own" it? The Batman was terrified by bats; it seemed to follow that something would have happened to the Joker for him to choose a clown's countenance. Perhaps that's why he has his crew wear those awful, creepy rubber clown masks... a reminder of the horrible fate he endured, silently suffering behind a clown's mask._

_Second, the plot of the scar story - in TDK, we are only treated to two of the Joker's scar stories. (Had he been able to share his story before Batman stopped him at the end of the movie, my theory might be different than what it is.) In the first story he tells Gambol, the Joker is the victim of someone else's hand; in the second story he tells Rachel, he's the one who inflicts the scars. Two different stories, but there was a common theme I couldn't help but notice in both tales: women in his life as victims. In the first, his mother was a victim of his father's rage, and he was powerless to stop it. In the second, his wife was the victim of loan sharks, and he was powerless to prevent her attack, and subsequently, powerless to get her face fixed._

_That was why, for this story, I wanted to continue the theme of the scars being the result of trying to intervene in a situation where a girl he cared about was about to be victimized. It seemed like a plausible connection._

_My interpretation is that the Joker is genuinely bothered by violence against women, hence the theme of victimized women in his scar stories. True, he's not exactly being a prince to Lois, but he is giving her a HELL of a lot more leeway than he would if he'd kidnapped a man. (If you'd like to go back to read my author's notes for Chapter 10, I talk a little more about that.) He'd have eviscerated a male victim within the first hour. He's had Lois for 8 hours now, and she's still alive. No man would have lasted that long._

_When the Joker thinks to himself that he's going to tell her THE story, I leave it up to the reader's interpretation: it could mean, in the Joker's mind, that he's about to tell Lois The Mother Of All Fabricated Stories... or, that it's actually the REAL story of what happened to him._

_Likewise, I also wanted to leave it up to the reader to interpret the student characters in his scar story. The Joker recalls the names of Jasper, Smitty and Vegas, but I purposely left out the names of the 3 students he followed around._

_Maybe his story actually was completely fabricated; and purely through coincidence, he thought that creating 3 students would lend realism to the story._

_Or..._

_...perhaps the story actually DID happen, and those students really DID exist._

_If you choose to believe that this could be the ACTUAL scar story... and you're a fan of 'Smallville'... then you can probably deduce who the 3 students were: Lana was the beauty, Chloe was her friend, and Clark was the protective boy. If you hadn't thought of that while reading it, I invite you to read that passage again with their faces in mind, and see if that changes the story a bit for you, should you choose to believe that this was the actual event that caused his scars._

**_Wouldn't it be an ironic twist of fate if it were the very hands of Superman that unwittingly led to the creation of the Joker as we know him, when all he was trying to do was prevent someone from being a victim?_ **

_Just a possible theory. You can draw whatever conclusion you think fits the story better..._

_-4ofCups, 2009.04.29_


	39. A Devil Like No Other

*** A DEVIL LIKE NO OTHER ***

**Chapter 39**

**. . . . . . .**

Jim Gordon never answered the Joker's question.

As the ambulance doors shut behind him and the vehicle's ceiling blurred in his field of vision, this was the epiphany that struck him.

" _Does it depress you, Commissioner… to know just how_ alone _you really are?"_

It was the only coherent thought he could retain in his mind, as his consciousness flickered in and out like a dying light bulb. He tried to focus on his family, and the duty he had to them. He strained to picture their faces… but the images were fading. For all the memories that tumbled about in his head, his mind returned to a picture more dominant than the rest.

Not the face of his wife. Not the face of his son or daughter.

 _His_ face. And that infernal question.

That brief exchange in the MCU's interrogation room had haunted Gordon for over a year. Countless nights he'd awoken and sat bolt upright in bed, bathed in sweat with his heart pounding. And now that nightmare was returning to him. Again.

Had Gordon the strength to cry, he would have. From despondency. From fear.

And most palpably, from anger. _Damn it, if I am beyond saving, that_ animal _is_ not _the last thing I want to think of!_

The droning beeping sound of the heart monitor he was hooked to was suddenly drowned out by the ambulance siren, echoing the torment of his emotions brought up by the vision of the Joker. Gordon intermittently had the presence of mind to understand that the sirens were blasting for his own sake. The cacophony alerted others to yield, to give way to allow safe passage due to his precarious state.

Jim didn't like being in this position. He was charged with protecting the city of Gotham: _he_ needed to be looking after _her_ , not the other way around. Gotham was in her darkest hour of need, and Gordon was helpless… in body, mind and spirit.

And when the spirit is weak, fear seeps in like a poison and stains one's mind, blotting out faith and leaving hollow uncertainty. Unanswered questions surface. Like the Joker's question to Jim Gordon.

The question had insinuated that Gordon was surrounded by Judases. Gordon hadn't understood at the time what the Joker meant: he thought that the clown was merely making an attempt to unnerve him with mind games.

He had no idea it was a statement of truth. A prediction, of sorts.

It was a bitter pill to swallow when it came to light that officers Wuertz and Ramirez were indeed his very own Cassius and Brutus. The Joker had known before Gordon knew of impending betrayal within his own ranks.

Shortly thereafter, the Joker had destroyed Dent, in every way a man could be destroyed.

Then the Batman had gone into hiding.

Maybe Jim really was alone, as either a consequence of betrayal or ending up in the wake of the Joker's destruction. Gordon inwardly smirked at the irony that even his own body was now betraying him. He felt broken.

But not defeated. Not yet. He knew he had Detective Joe Murdock in his corner.

Murdock had been a good officer to work with, a steady right-hand man. Jim had to believe that Murdock would continue to do everything he could to keep Gotham's citizens as safe as possible from the chaos the Joker had unleashed.

And Gordon also had Garcia. Although he and Tony had had their differences, Jim believed that the mayor would do everything he could to protect the city and restore justice. It was his sworn duty as an elected official, and Jim believed in the system and those who served it. He had to believe.

Barbara had never held the faith that Jim did in Garcia's role as mayor. After all, Gordon had literally taken a bullet that the Joker intended for Anthony Garcia. Jim's wife was quite verbal in her opinion that the mayor owed Jim his full support publicly as they fought to bring justice to the streets since the Batman went rogue. Instead, she could see Garcia build an increasing distance between them, every chance he got at press conferences. Gordon knew that Garcia was a politician, and the duty of upholding public policies outweighed any personal allegiance. Garcia did what was best for the city. That was more important than any friendship or perceived obligation between them.

Murdock and Garcia. They were now the two public servants Jim had to trust most to stop the Joker from punishing Gotham more than he had already.

Another pain shot through the left side of his chest, and he wheezed into the oxygen mask. The EMT above him looked down with concern evident on his face. He turned to yell over his shoulder. "Can't you make this thing go any faster? We've got to get him to Mercy _now_!"

The driver's frustration was evident in his tone. "What am I supposed to do, drive on the sidewalk? Look—nearly everything is gridlocked because of all the bombs the Joker set off. People are in a total state of panic!"

Those words hurt Gordon more than the chest pain.

The EMT at Gordon's side registered Gordon's distress. "Yes! Do it! Get up and drive on the sidewalks if you have to! I don't care how many garbage cans you have to hit, we need to make tracks fast!"

"Okay, man, if you say so…"

The gurney jolted as the ambulance mounted the curb. As his head came down on the pillow, a new image came to Gordon's mind. It was black and ominous.

But it was hopeful.

The Batman.

Had they spoken earlier that night? Gordon was starting to fade again. Although he hadn't seen the Batman in over a year, something told him that he was near. Not all was lost. There was still hope.

Jim felt something squeeze his hand. "Commissioner, can you hear me?" The face of the EMT looked down at him. Jim tried to track the man's face with his eyes, too weak to verbalize a reply. "Sir, I need you to stay with me. Keep your eyes open."

Jim looked over the EMT's shoulder at the medical equipment. It reminded him of what had been in Harvey Dent's hospital room. Harvey was gone. Hell, that whole _hospital_ was gone. The Joker was like a plague, leaving everything in his path diseased or destroyed.

That face returned in his mind.

He pictured it, as it stared back at him from across the interrogation room table. It was grotesque.

The black paint around the eyes had bled to grey around the periphery of the orbital sockets, while the red of the mouth had blended into pink higher up on the cheeks. Green and dark blonde strands of tangled hair were damp with sweat, clinging to his face when he leaned forward. Curiously, the stained yellow teeth that flashed between taunts were straight, and could only have been the result of past orthodontics.

Wherever he had come from, he had been shown care through his early teens at least, by Gordon's estimation. Perhaps he had even enjoyed the semblance of a normal home life at one time. _What could have gone so horribly wrong? What did he ultimately suffer through?_

Nearly two decades earlier, Jim Gordon had comforted a shock-stricken young boy, whose parents had been shot in front of him in the side alley of the Gotham Opera House. Not even out of grade school yet, and the child had witnessed his own parents' murder by a strung out, homeless drug addict from point-blank range. Jesus, if anyone Gordon knew had license to turn out to be a monster, it was Bruce Wayne. But he hadn't.

So what type of violence and emotional damage would have to occur to push someone to become what sat before him in the interrogation room?

 _How does someone become…_ that _?_

In their brief tete-a-tete, those were the questions Gordon had tried to quell in his mind. He knew that he should be singularly focused on the only question that really mattered – where Harvey Dent had disappeared to – but Gordon couldn't help but find distraction in the jarring painted face before him. Exertion from being arrested had worn some areas of the white greasepaint away from the Joker's face, revealing flesh traces of the twisted man underneath.

A young man, from what Gordon could see. Very early-thirties. Quite possibly, still in his twenties. Wise beyond his years, and frighteningly so. For what he lacked in age, he more than made up for in an impressive repertoire of criminal accomplishments and fearlessness. How many men were at his beck and call? How many had put themselves in harm's way at his bidding? The Joker exhibited a mastery of commanding allegiances, the likes of which Gordon had only seen in footage of tyrannical cult leaders and fascist dictators.

The Joker also exhibited an unchecked willingness to harm even those who pledged themselves to him. Only one officer survived the bomb that the Joker detonated in the MCU a year earlier, facilitating his own escape. That officer, left badly burned, blind and almost completely deaf, was able to recount what had happened months later as he recovered in the ICU. The last thing he saw was a large man known to be associated with the Joker splayed out on the floor of the holding cell. His shirt had been lifted up, with a medic probing his abdomen. The Joker had cut one of his own mentally deranged lackeys open and put a cell phone inside of him, just under the skin, which was the bomb's trigger.

The cell phone was no bigger than five inches in length. Yet the Joker had made a deep, snaking incision nearly two feet long up the man's torso, before inserting the phone. He hadn't used a scalpel: the edges were serrated, as if he'd sawed the man open with a bread knife.

Just for the sport of it. Because he could.

Because it was completely unnecessary, and caused tremendous pain.

Jim didn't like to admit it to himself, but he was afraid – truly _afraid_ of the Joker; both of the wanton violence he represented, and of the man himself. The Joker was both aggressive, and learned in the art of cunning deception, unsettling those around him with mercurial displays of erratic behavior, interrupted by moments displaying his keen acumen. Unpredictable and unstable.

Yet for all the manic energy the Joker had displayed in that room, that one singular question to Gordon had been delivered so coldly, with such precision of execution…

…the Joker instinctively knew just where to cut, to make it hurt the most. Even when he used words instead of knives.

He was a prodigy of cruelty. An apt student of pain.

Jim wasn't sure if there were a hell, but he believed he had come as close to the devil himself that night as any man would ever fear to.

With the ambulance weaving down the sidewalk, this was the thought in Gordon's mind as he heard the heart monitor's slow bleeping draw out to a solid screeching sound, as his vision tunneled to black.

________________________________

Mayor Anthony Garcia ran a hand through his hair and clenched his fist at the scruff of his neck. "For God's sake, Sheila, what do you want me to do?" His eyes were closed as a voice chirped at him from the other end of the cell phone.

Five months earlier he'd made a speech at a reception for Gotham's most profitable steel magnate, who had just opened a factory near the waterfront in Gotham's Narrows, promising to pump jobs into the depressed, blue collar area of the city. At the after party, Garcia had one too many vodka tonics. The impaired judgment lead him to believe that the business owner's personal assistant was a hell of a lot more interesting than she actually was.

It turned out to be a mistake that wouldn't stay in the past. That mistake's name was Sheila, a woman who thought that one night's romp in the mayor's bedroom entitled her to special favors. Favors that were as unrealistic as the relationship between them that she'd fabricated in her mind; unrealistic favors like a personal taxi service via air.

"I'm scared, Tony, and I want to get out of this city! Send a helicopter to pick me up."

Garcia exhaled loudly in annoyance. _How fucking stupid are you?_ "I'm a _mayor_ , Sheila, I'm not a millionaire business owner with a private jet or helicopter at my disposal like your boss! Air transportation falls under the umbrella of the police force. And even if I had access to one, it wouldn't be something that I could command for personal errands while the city is being ravaged by a lunatic!"

"Yes you could! You're the mayor of Gotham!"

_Christ. This is the last thing on earth I need right now._

"Tony, I don't care how you do it, but you get your hands on one and send it to pick me up now!"

He scoffed. "Oh, and where would I send it, exactly? Have it land it in the Quik Trip parking lot down the street from your apartment?"

The sarcasm went right over her head. "Ew, no! There are too many homeless who hang out by front doors. There's a Burger King that's not far away—"

"The answer is _no,_ Sheila! You don't need to leave the city. We're doing what we can to contain the violence. It's more dangerous out there than it is in your apartment building." _On second thought, maybe that's exactly why I_ should _send her outside. Maybe I'll get lucky and she'll get trampled by a panicked mob. That would make the bitch shut up._

"You can't stop what the Joker is doing, Tony. No one can! Send someone to come and get me, or so help me, I'm going public with those photos."

 _Ah, and there it is._ That threat had been the familiar refrain of every conversation. She held the trump card, which prevented him from completely ousting her from his life. Sheila had threatened numerous times that if he cut himself off from her, she'd make public the photos she'd taken of him with her cell phone… in extremely unflattering and compromising positions, unbeknownst to him. She was no Rhodes Scholar, but she was smart enough to spot a meal ticket when it came along, and she had put the cell phone with the photos in a safety deposit box.

"Sheila, why are you doing this to me now? Do you have _any_ idea the weight of responsibility that is on my shoulders tonight?"

"So? I'm a citizen of Gotham, and you're _supposed_ to be looking out for the citizens of Gotham. It's your sworn duty!"

He pinched the bridge of his nose. This was going nowhere. "Sheila, this conversation is over. I'm hanging up. Do _not_ call me again at this number. Stay in your apartment, or try to leave the city, I don't care what you do. Just leave me alone."

"You son of a bitch, if you hang up on me, I swear to God I'll post them _all_ over the internet! You'll never live it down… _Batboy!_ "

He balled his fist at his side in indignation. _You fucking twat._ After they'd ended up back at his place on that one night of bad judgment, they'd hit his own personal stash of liquor, and he'd gotten drunker still. When she told him she was into role-play, he'd pulled out part of a costume that he kept for nights when he wanted to amp up the kink a bit.

It was a black satin cowl and cape, fashioned like the Batman's: the same man who Garcia had declared a fugitive and swore to bring to justice for the murder of Harvey Dent. The irony would be lost on no one. She'd taken photos of him passed out wearing the cowl, cape, a black velvet belt, and nothing else.

"Sheila… wh—why are you doing this?"

"Because you can't just forget about me! You can't just use me as a sex object and then throw me aside like garbage!"

 _Not this 'poor-me-victim' song and dance again. I don't need this shit, not on this night, of all nights._ "You know what? I don't care what you do! If you want to go public with them, be my guest!" He terminated the call as she started to protest. He'd worry about the ramifications later. There were people who could make stuff like this go away. For now, there were more pressing issues at hand.

Like how to distance himself from Gordon, who was going to be the fall guy for the Joker's bringing hell to the city.

From his vantage point in his office, he could see the orange glow down the street from one of the fires that had resulted from a car bomb. He heard the door open to his office behind him, the usual formalities due his position suspended during this evening of chaos. One of the senior council members entered without knocking.

"Anthony, there's been a development."

Garcia shook his head. "For Christ's sake, Frank, tell me it's good news."

The older man pursed his lips and furrowed his brow. "Not exactly."

"'Not exactly'?" Garcia threw his cell phone in frustration across the room to the couch. "And just what is that supposed to mean?"

Frank drew in a deep breath. "It happened a short while ago over at Gotham Maximum Security. The warden wasn't able to reach you by phone, so he called me."

Garcia squared himself to the man, arms akimbo. "Well?"

The councilman cleared his throat uncomfortably. "It seems that all of the prisoners on death row are… gone."

"Gone? What does that mean, ' _gone_ '?" Garcia blinked, shaking his head to process the revelation.

"Someone let them out. All twenty-three of them. They're off the grounds, out on the streets. Out there somewhere. The warden's not sure how long ago they escaped. The security cameras had been tampered with. A guard on bed-check duty didn't clock in with the security head on schedule. Other guards were sent down to check on him, and they found him with his skull crushed. Three guards out by the perimeter's gate were found shot to death. The prison immediately went into lockdown. That was ten minutes ago."

 _Oh, this is perfect. Just fucking perfect. Exactly what I need._ Garcia ran a hand over his face and stared at Frank, shrugging his shoulders. "We have no more resources. Where the hell is the damned governor?"

"They haven't been able to reach her yet. She's on a plane to Gotham from Los Angeles, and it's still en route."

Sarcasm coated the mayor's reply. "They have phones in government planes, these days, Frank. Why the hell can't they reach her?"

"She's not on a government plane. She's coming back from a personal vacation to visit her children in California. She's riding commercial, fulfilling some… some campaign promise that she'd remain 'accessible' to the public, and wouldn't squander tax payer resources on personal excursions."

"Fuck!" Garcia pounded the desk with both fists. "She's the only one with the authority to deploy the state's National Guard. Until she executes that order, we've got nothing in the bank. Gordon's men and women are running all over this city as it is, trying to contain the damage that fucking clown has set loose. And now we have these Neanderthals on the lam? How much worse is this going to get?"

"We have two choices, Anthony," the councilman held his hands out in front of him. "We either pull some of Gordon's officers in to try to hunt down those escaped felons, or we notify the public immediately so they can protect themselves."

"Ha!" Garcia shook his head. "You want me to go public – in the middle of the pandemonium already out there tonight – and announce that _death row inmates_ have escaped? It—it would be a free-for-all! We'll have vigilantes on the streets shooting anyone who looks suspicious."

"The public has a right to know—"

"No they don't! Not tonight, they don't! I'm charged with running this city, God damn it, and a revelation of that magnitude would put more people in harm's way than would help them. They less they know, the better."

Frank cast his eyes to the floor. "All right, Anthony, it's your call."

"Yes, it is my call, and that's where I stand."

"Very well. We've been working with air traffic control at Gotham International Airport to send an emergency message to the pilots of the governor's plane. I will let you know as soon as we make contact."

Garcia's shoulders slumped in resignation as he shook his head. "I guess that's all we can do. I'll contact Gordon and have him route whatever officers he can spare toward the prison…" his voice trailed off as his gaze went to the window, distracted.

"Anthony? What is it?"

Garcia's voice was distant. "The prisoners who escaped… you said that they were all death row inmates, didn't you?"

"Yes, I did."

He turned to the councilman. "And no other prisoners? None of the ones in the psyche arm, or in gen pop?"

"No, just from death row."

Garcia's brow knotted. "I toured that prison with the warden while campaigning." He pointed to the floor. "The death row inmates are housed underground, under the greatest amount of protection in the prison. That prison was _designed_ so that if an escape were ever successful, the death row inmates would be the last ones out."

"As the warden told me, they believe that those men were let out on purpose."

"But why? That's my point. If the Joker wanted to unleash the most harm possible, he would have freed _all_ the prisoners from the prison, certainly the ones that were easiest to get to. Why would he go to the trouble of freeing only 23 prisoners – the most inaccessible of the bunch – but leave over two thousand in their cells?"

"This may not have been the work of the Joker."

"No? And why not? Christ, Frank, have you looked outside lately? He's doing everything he can to bring this city to its knees! Why wouldn't that be his handiwork?"

Frank crossed his arms and looked at the floor to collect his thoughts. Then he faced Garcia. "I don't think it's him."

A sarcastic smile crossed Garcia's face. "Seriously, Frank? Are you yanking my fucking chain here, or what?"

The councilman shook his head. "No, I don't think it's the Joker, because the security cameras were dismantled. He's gone through the trouble of sending not just one, but two videos to the GPD and GCN this evening, claiming responsibility for everything that's happening out there tonight. Why wouldn't he claim responsibility for freeing those prisoners? I would think that he'd be the first one to stick his face in the camera, smiling that shit-eating grin of his for everyone to see."

Garcia had to concede that Frank had a point. He nodded once. "You're right. Anonymity doesn't fit his M.O." He slid his hands into his pockets, absently fiddling with a laundry ticket and a money clip. He walked over to the office window, keeping his back to Frank.

"So if the Joker didn't free those men, who did? And why those men in particular?"

________________________________

With a sickening crack, the cab driver's neck was snapped. The driver's door opened from the outside, and the cabbie's lifeless body tumbled over onto the street below. The turban came off, landing next to his face.

"Sorry 'bout that, Apu Harambi-Pambi, or whatever your Indian-ass name is. We just need to borrow your taxi for a little bit." Edward Tritt smiled at his own joke, shoving the body away with his foot. The cab driver had pulled over when he saw the uniformed man waving at him. He mistook Edward for a Gotham Police Officer. He had no idea it was a rogue prison guard.

Edward had asked to borrow the cab driver's CB radio, claiming he needed to call for back up in detaining a couple of kids he had apprehended while trying to break into a car. When he leaned into the car, he quickly scanned the dashboard to see what type of emergency communication system the cab was equipped with. Satisfied with what he saw, he broke the driver's neck with enough force to nearly shatter two of the cervical vertebrae.

He turned back to Jonas Hodge, who climbed out of the cab of the laundry truck parked across the street. Jonas jogged over to Edward, eyeing the dead man on the street. "What was that for?" He motioned to the body.

"That's our bait."

Jonas drew back. "Bait?"

Edward nodded, and pointed into the cab, to the dashboard. "See that box on center console? That box is equipped with a direct line to the GPD. If a cabbie thinks he's in danger, he can hit that black button on the side, there, and it sends a signal to a 911-type of crew that oversees the safety of public transportation drivers. Every bus and cab in Gotham has one of these puppies in it. The cab's registered information and location goes out to the police, and they dispatch the first car they can to the aid of the driver. It's part of some movement that asshole Mayor Garcia was pushing, to make the drivers feel safer, or some shit like that."

Edward leaned into the cab and pressed the black button.

Jonas' jaw dropped open. "Yo, what the fuck did you do that for? You _want_ the cops out here?"

Edward pulled himself out and looked Jonas square in the face. "Yeah. That's the idea."

Jonas was starting to regret his decision to join Edward in his quest to find the Joker. "So now we wait for a cop car to get here?"

Edward folded his arms, and leaned back against the cab. "Yep, we wait."

"Uh huh." Jonas didn't think that sounded well thought-out. "And how long is that gonna take, with all the police tied up because of the bombs the Joker has set off tonight?"

Edward's cocky smile faded a bit. _Aw, shit. The bombs._ "Well, if we have to wait a little longer, we wait a little longer. They'll get here."

"You sure?"

"Yeah, this will work."

"And if it doesn't? Then what the fuck are we going to do?" Jonas motioned back toward the truck.

Tendons stood out in Edward's neck as he clenched his jaw. "You got some sort of problem, Hodge? If you do, let's hear it. I'm all ears."

As if in reply, a solitary loud bang came from the back of the laundry truck. The live cargo inside was becoming restless, and one of them decided to kick at the back of the metal door.

Jonas looked nervously back at the truck. "How long do you think they're going to wait?"

Edward shrugged. "As long as it takes. They don't have much of a choice, do they?"

Another kick to the door. Faint shouting from the inside. Edward tapped Jonas on the shoulder. "Back that truck around the corner so it's out of sight. We can't have any noises raising suspicion when the cops get here."

Jonas nodded, and sulked back to the truck. A third prison guard was in on the plan, sitting idle in the cab of the truck. He seemed oblivious to the noise the prisoners were making in the back, too caught up with the issue of Penthouse on his lap.

As Jonas turned the keys in the ignition and backed up the truck, he could hear the death threats from inside the cargo hold. The inmates were getting restless. Soon, restlessness would segue into violence. Jonas knew that the longer they made the prisoners wait, the less likely they were to collaborate in a collective effort to hunt down the Joker. They may be just as willing to kill all three guards who broke them out in the first place.

Jonas met his own eyes in the rear view mirror. _I think you made a really, really big mistake by coming along._

A late model Nissan Maxima drove by the taxi cab, and slowed down. The passenger side window lowered, and an older man leaned across to yell over to Edward. "Officer? Is that man okay?"

Edward shook his head. "No, sir, he's been injured. I could use your help."

The man was surprised. "Me? Okay, what can I do?"

Edward removed his gun from the holster on his belt, extended his arm and fired at the driver. The bullet went into the forehead and out the back of the skull, shattering the driver's side window.

"You can let us borrow your car."

________________________________

Lois began to shake. Memories surfaced as the Joker cupped her face in his hands.

" _I'll teach you, you stinkin' brat!"_

Those were the words that her cousin Kevin had threatened her with, before holding her head under water at the lake all those years ago. Payback for the humiliation she had caused him in front of his friends on the dock. It happened when she was twelve, but it wasn't a distant memory. To the contrary, it was still vivid.

It was her first memory of someone retaliating against her with malice, to teach her a lesson: to deliver their vision of her deserved come-uppance. It would be the first of many such lessons.

" _You prying bitch, I'll show you!"_

Those words were followed by a sharp slap across the face from the wife of a dentist, who had ambushed Lois by her car. Lois had gone public with the investigative details that several female patients had alleged sexual misconduct by the man, while they were under general anesthesia. The man's practice had been destroyed. Before the police arrested the woman for assault, she had also managed to key Lois' car.

" _Happy now, cunt?"_

The front door of her condo in downtown Metropolis had been spray painted by some boys from Metropolis U, whose fraternity chapter was disbanded after Lois reported of a student's suicide after a humiliating hazing incident at their hands.

" _Stikk ott helverte du javlige hore!"_

The Swedish ambassador had told her to go to hell. After calling her a damned whore, he'd tried to push her down a flight of stairs at the embassy building after hours. Seems he didn't like her unearthing the ugly secret about his father's family selling the sperm of Swedish men out of Norrkoeping to Germany, for expedited propagation of the 'Aryan' race in the Third Reich during WWII.

Lois had received more than her fair share of threats in her life. As a reporter who mucked around in the dirty secrets everyone wanted to hide, it was part of the job. So, too, was the retaliation that sometimes ensued.

She had even been targeted for murder. Though no connection could be proven, Lois knew that Metropolis billionaire Lex Luthor had ordered the hit.

It had happened only six months earlier.

In a rural area of Kansas, LexCorp had been disposing of volatile chemical waste in unauthorized channels. Lois broke the story, which threatened to shut down the company's single largest operating agricultural bio-research arm. The company's stock tumbled, as the so-called 'green' mutual funds dumped LexCorp shares from their portfolios in a near-record sell-off. Lois had stood off to the side of the LexCorp headquarters lobby, as the news crews stormed forward to ambush Lex Luthor while he exited the building. Microphones were thrust in his face, as questions of net third quarter losses and rescinded Department of Agriculture contracts were lobbed his way. As he answered succinctly and strategically with a cool smile, his eyes rarely left Lois.

Two weeks later, Lois attended a hockey game at the new state-of-the-art sports arena in downtown Metropolis with some of her _Daily Planet_ colleagues. A fight broke out on the ice, and Clark Kent had accidentally bumped into her to get a better view of the fracas. Lucky for her that he did: right as he jostled her, the glass of the suite was pierced by a sniper's hollow-tip round, which ended up shattering a bottle of wine on the bar behind them. Later when the police's ballistics team arrived, they couldn't explain how the bullet missed hitting Lois squarely in the head, given the point of entry: it defied physics how the bullet deflected after piercing the glass.

For once, Lois was grateful for Clark's bumbling oafishness. When she thanked him for 'saving' her with his clumsiness, he gave his usual awkward reply: a shrug of his shoulders, an unconscious push of his horn-rimmed glasses up the bridge of his nose, and an over-eager smile.

The attempted hit was the work of a professional, but no leads picked up any connection to Lex Luthor. Despite the failed attempt on her life, she understood the message.

Some people really wanted to teach her a lesson. Although always unsettling and sometimes jarring, Lois relied on her bravado to help her cope with such retaliatory actions. She harbored a cavalier assumption that she would always end up okay in the end. She always had.

But this was different.

She wasn't in Metropolis. She wasn't defending herself against an affronted politician or a disgraced businessman.

She was in Gotham, which may as well have been hell itself. It had felt like it. Every hell had its devil presiding over it.

And she was looking at him. This was _his_ domain.

There was no Superman here. There was no Batman here.

Just _him._ The Joker.

And he wanted to teach her a lesson.

For all the corruption she had seen in her career, for all the wrongdoing and ugliness that was out in the world… _nothing_ had ever approximated the poverty of conscience that she'd witnessed tonight in this one man. Nothing.

He was wicked to the bone. She'd felt his seductive advances, bent to his hypnotic will… only to see him feast with Bacchanalian delight upon her suffering. How he had _toyed_ with her, inflicting pain at random for his own entertainment, subjecting her to psychological torment and confusion. He showed an inexplicable childlike playfulness, interspersed with explosive rages. He was brilliant, and at the same time, the Joker was completely mad.

And now… after all she had endured already... _now_ he wanted her 'lesson' to begin.

As if reading her thoughts, he repeated himself: "You're ready now, Lois. I have so many things to teach you."

She started to sway as the pain in her knees throbbed. They'd both been kneeling on the hardwood floor, facing each other while he'd told her where his scars had come from.

 _A lesson… at his hands…_ She visibly shook with fear.

"Ah ah _ah_ , shhhh… shhhh, there's a good girl." His voice was low, beckoning her to offer him her trust. "Shhhh…"

As he held her face in his hands, she became conscious of how gentle the touch felt. He slowly began to stroke her cheeks, in a motion akin to a lover's caress. It was somehow soothing. Her trembling abated.

"That's riiiight." The Joker's voice was nearly a whisper. Lois felt her shoulders drop.

Then he stroked her left cheek with his thumb with force, forcing open the cut on her cheek he'd given her earlier when she'd interrupted his story. Lois winced, and watched the Joker examine her blood on his thumb. He brought it to his mouth and licked it off. She grimaced.

He rolled his eyes back and closed them. He drew in a deep breath through his nose, and let his head drop back. His lips parted, and as he exhaled, his face took on the expression of a man who had just climaxed. She felt sick.

The Joker kept his eyes closed, licked his lips and dropped his head down to his right shoulder. Then he rolled his head forward, chin to his chest. When he slowly lifted his head, his eyes were half open.

"Loissss…." This hissing sibilant was sexual in delivery. He returned his right hand to the left side of her face, placing his thumb on her lips. He removed his left hand from her cheek, and extended his arm directly out to the side. His eyes never left her face. She heard a click, and looked over to see that his hand was on the camcorder.

He shut the video feed off.

"What I'm going to _teach_ you, Sweet Tart, is just between us." His speech was slow, as if intoxicated. "No one sees this but you… and _me._ Not even… _him._ Even the Bat. Man. Won't see what I'm going to do to you. _"_

Slowly, so slowly, his lips drew back in a smile. "You will be a changed woman, Lois. You'll never… _ever…_ be the same. Again." He shook his head and mouthed the word: _"Ever."_

"Oh God, _please_ don't do this! P—please don't! Don't do this, don't hurt me!" The tears were flowing freely.

"Are you frightened, pretty girl?"

She closed her eyes. "Yes!"

The tone of his reply was low. Menacing. "Well, you should be."

Her eyes opened wide. "No! God, _please_ don't do this!" Desperation overtook her. Lois did something she never thought she would: she began to barter with her life. "Please, if you don't hurt me, I'll do anything you want."

Amused, he cocked his head. "What? What was that?"

Lois choked out her words between sobs. "I'll do anything you want, if you let me go. Please!"

"Mmmm… like _what,_ exactly?"

"Anything!"

"I said, 'like what'?" He pursed his lips.

_You know what, you son of a bitch. Don't make me say it._

He turned his head to the side and smiled. "Weeeeeellll?" The scars puckered his cheeks.

She was all but defeated. She couldn't out-smart him, or match him physically. No one was his equal in psychological warfare.

That left only one commodity to bargain with.

"I'll do… I'll _do…_ anything you want."

Her sexuality was all that was left.

"Mmmm…" A lascivious smile spread across his mouth as he raked over her body with his eyes. " _Anything_ I want?" He slid his hands down to her waist and drew her hips to his with force.

Her chest was heaving with fear, each breath forcing her breasts against him as he held her waist in an unforgiving grip. She was overcome with shame and disgust. He leaned into her. As she tried to lean away, he pulled her in closer. She could feel him grow hard with arousal. She turned her face from him, wincing from the implications of what was to come.

He held her with one hand at the small of her back, and put the other on the back of her neck. He pulled her face to his mouth. His lips went to her ear. His whisper was coarse: "I want you."

She shuddered, whimpering with fear at the very thought.

"Lois, I _want_ you. To. _Beg."_

She blinked. "What?"

"You heard me." (smack) "I want you to be _g._ Be _g_ me, for your life-ah!"

Her trembling had grown so violent that her teeth started to chatter. "What?"

"Do it. _BEG ME!"_ He leaned his forehead onto hers. "I'm listening... do it!"

Self-respect had no more hold on her. This was life or death. "I—I beg you for my life! Please!"

"Do you _beg_ me, Lois?"

"Yes! I'm begging you, don't hurt me!"

"Are you offering yourself to me, Lois? Are you begging me with your body?" His erection had grown rock-hard and was starting to bruise her lower abdomen as he held her to him with force.

Her humiliation was excruciating. "Yes!" She was sobbing. "I'm begging you with everything I have… with my body. Please!"

His lips brushed her neck. "Say it again. Say, 'I beg you'. Say it."

"I beg you. Please."

"Again."

"I beg you."

" _Again._ " His breath was labored.

"I beg you!"

"Now say my name."

She paused, confused. "Wha—Joker?"

"Yessss. Say it again."

"Joker." It felt perverse to address him with his self-given name.

"Say it again."

"Joker."

"Scream it."

"Joker!"

"No, _scream_ it!"

" _Joker!"_

"Now say, 'Joker, I'm begging you for my life'."

Lois swallowed. "Joker, I'm beg—"

"No, yell it!"

"Joker, I'm _begging_ you for my life!"

"Say you beg me!"

"I'm begging you!"

" _Scream it!"_

She choked on a sob. _"I beg you!"_

He nodded, and wrapped his arms around her in a full body embrace. "Now say it softer."

"I b—beg you."

"Softer."

"Please…"

"Say it. Softer."

"I beg you."

"Whisper it to me."

Her voice fell. "I beg you." Her chin was on his shoulder. She was on the verge of hiccups from the crying jag. "Please, Joker, I beg you."

She felt him nod, and he began to stroke the back of her head. "Now, hold onto me."

Lois' arms had been clamped at her side. She tentatively raised them, and encircled his waist. His breathing slowed as she did so.

He readjusted his hold on her, burying his face in the crook of her neck, breathing in the scent of her hair. "Good girl." He squeezed her. "Lois."

She didn't reply.

"Looooisssss?"

The tears had slowed. Her speech was hampered from the spasms of her diaphragm. "Wha—what?"

He pulled back and looked her in the eyes from close range. There was no smile on his face. "That. That was very _goooood."_

Her voice was timid with uncertainty and exhaustion. "Thank you?"

His hand reached over to the camera again, and he shut off the audio recorder. Suddenly he shook his head violently back and forth, like a dog shaking itself after a bath. A noise that sounded like a high-pitched whine filled her ears at a shrill pitch, broken into a choppy cadence by the thrashing motion of his head. Lois tried to lean away from him, completely confused by the display.

When he stopped, he looked at her again, nodding almost imperceptibly.

"Buuu—uuut…" There was a sing-song quality to the word.

Lois tensed with anticipation. _Oh my God…_

He narrowed his eyes at her, cocked his head, and smiled a devil's smile. "But not good enough."

With a manic cackle, he lunged forward and tackled her to the floor.

________________________________

 

. . . . . . .

Author's Notes for "A Devil Like No Other"

. . . . . . .

_People in Gotham seem to get themselves into some rather unfortunate situations, when camera-enabled cell phones enter the mix._

_Back in Chapter 10, the Joker recorded a message on Lois' cell phone for the Batman to hear. In that message, he promised Batman he'd record an audio feed of Lois screaming the Joker's name. The Joker always seems to get what he sets his sights on._

_A quick note to add clarification (which I forgot to do when publishing the chapter a few hours ago) - I don't speak Swedish. A friend of mind taught me that phrase years ago as a joke, but I've never seen it written down. Spelling is likely wrong, and the phrase itself may not even be all that common. I hope those facts won't detract too much from the story. Thanks to Miravisu for catching it!_

_-4oC 2009.06.08_

 


	40. Epiphanies

*** EPIPHANIES ***

**Chapter 40**

**. . . . . . .**

"He's flat-lined!"

The ambulance driver clenched the steering wheel, shooting a tense look into the rearview mirror. He could hear the drawn out screech of the electrocardiogram, as the Gotham police commissioner's heart gave out.

The EMT next to Gordon spun to his side, flipping a switch to charge the portable defibrillator. He turned back to the gurney, panic evident in his voice. "Commissioner! Sir! Commissioner Gordon! Stay with me!" He opened Gordon's shirt wider, exposing a chest with grey skin pulled taut against prominent ribs. The crushing responsibility of the commissioner's duties over the last year had taken a fearsome toll on his body, and he was wasting away. Gordon's eyes were closed and his mouth slightly open, as if he'd been cut off before giving voice to his last words.

The driver shouted over his shoulder. "We're two minutes out!"

The EMT hoped the estimate to Mercy was liberal. Gordon might not have two minutes. The medic put a generous amount of gel on the undersides of the defibrillator paddles and rubbed the bottoms together. He watched for the green light on the machine's console, indicating the charge was full.

After a span of seconds, which seemed an eternity, a green light illuminated with a simultaneous beep.

The EMT immediately placed the paddles on Gordon's chest, and deployed the charge. The inside of the ambulance acted as an echo chamber, amplifying the loud suction noise as the charge shot through Gordon's chest. The sheer power of the current was enough to arc the man's torso and hips several inches off the gurney. When his body slumped back onto the mattress below him, his head lolled from side to side in the wake of the jarring force.

Despite the continuous screeching noise, the EMT still looked up to view the electrocardiogram display, as if willing the horizontal line to spike with evidence of a pulse.

Nothing.

He put the paddles back in place, squeezed, and deployed another charge. This one was louder than the first, in congruence to the stronger current. Gordon's body arced again, this time even higher. But when his head fell to the side there was noise that followed.

A beep. Then another. The EMT watched as small spikes appeared on the heart monitor's screen. The heart rate was weak, but it was there. A pulse, thank God. Gordon's mouth suddenly opened wider and he drew breath in a sharp gasp.

"Sir, you gave us quite a scare." Gordon opened his eyes to look into the perspiring face of the man who smiled down at him. There was fear in the EMT's eyes, and the smile was forced; clearly a front to sooth Jim and lull him into as calm a state as possible. With great sadness, Jim recognized the expression – hollow and unconvincing. It was the same one that he had for his own boy, each time his son asked when the police would stop hunting the Batman.

In an attempt at humor, the EMT tried a bit of levity to lighten the atmosphere. "Well, sir, the good news is that you're back with us. The bad news is, you'll have to convince your wife that you weren't out tonight two-timing her with another woman." He smiled again, this time more genuine, as he pressed his fingers gently on the side of Gordon's neck. "We had to rip open your shirt, from the bottom all the way up to the collar. The bruise you sustained on your neck looks a bit like a hickey."

Gordon found that pretty damned funny. He didn't think he'd ever had a hickey on his neck in his life, not even as a teenager. Gordon recognized the efforts the medic was going through to help quell his own unease, so he returned the smile with what little strength he had. He even attempted a little levity of his own, as he warmed with the image of his wife in his mind. Coincidentally, Barbara had always joked that he was too uptight. "Th—that… that'll… teach… me… t—to button… up… up to… the neck… to the c—collar…"

The EMT shined a light in Gordon's eyes to check the pupil dilation. "Sir, you don't have to speak. We're almost there, just save your energy."

The advice wasn't necessary. Gordon's voice had trailed off as a memory bubbled up to the surface. A completely random thought… the recollection of an observation that he'd not considered before. _Collar… buttoned up to the neck…_

And once again, the monster appeared before him in his mind's eye.

In the Joker's self-recorded video in which he killed the Batman copycat, the clown was wearing the bizarre ensemble with the purple coat, waistcoat, shirt and tie. This was the same outfit he wore in the videos with Lois Lane, sent to the media earlier that very evening, and also what he was wearing when brought into the Major Crimes Unit itself over a year ago for interrogation. Gordon recognized that this was the Joker's signature look, of course, but something else came to mind.

In earlier footage caught on bank surveillance cameras around Gotham, the Joker taunted the police by smiling boldly into the cameras, wearing something a bit less conspicuous. Although the outfits were different, Jim realized an odd commonality to his dress: he always wore button-down shirts that were fastened all the way up to the collar.

Gordon had never seen the Joker's collar unbuttoned. Not once.

Such formality of dress was not unusual for a political fat cat or a white-collar desk jockey in Gotham's financial sector… but for someone as physical as the Joker was, who was not afraid to jump into a fracas with even the Batman himself… logic would dictate that a tightly-buttoned collar would either restrict movement to some degree, or make exaggerated physical activity cumbersome and painful. Maybe even cause bruising or some other injury at the neck, if his clothing were pulled the wrong way.

It would make much more sense to wear something looser around the neck, to facilitate easier movement. Gordon wondered if the most logical explanation were the right explanation: that the Joker was hiding something, some sort of identifying mark, up near the neckline.

With the Joker, nothing was predictable or practical. Gordon realized that his choice of dress could just be a personal preference, or perhaps a statement; a mockery of the very rule-governed institutions he so despised.

But what if it weren't? What if the Joker were genuinely hiding something? Perhaps there was a tattoo, a burn, or scars even more gruesome than what was on his face. If the Joker were, in fact, hiding evidence of a prior serious injury, maybe that could be traced: a past stabbing reported to the police, or some injury grievous enough to warrant a trip to the emergency room.

Severe injuries around the neck and jugular could be fatal… which meant any dealings with doctors would have been reported to the police, like gunshot victims brought into the emergency room. Perhaps it would be possible to trace past hospital admittance records and police reports where a caucasian male victim incurred a serious injury to his neck or upper chest. Gordon knew it was a very weak lead to pursue, but it was something. He needed something to focus on, to pull him through.

He wasn't down for the count yet, as the policeman in him stirred. His heart rate picked up a bit.

His speech was slow, but purposeful. "Son… I need… to make…" he wheezed "… a phone call. Can… you please… g—give me… my cell phone?"

The EMT glanced around. "I don't see it here. None of your belongings were brought along."

Gordon closed his eyes slowly, then opened them again with renewed focus. He needed to contact Detective Murdock with this theory. He didn't have the detective's number memorized, and needed the cell phone. Gordon swallowed with difficulty, as he sought an alternate strategy.

"Then I need… you… to get me… a connection… with Mayor Garcia." He blinked slowly, and nodded. "Now, son."

________________________________

Shortly after Frank left the mayor's office, Garcia's cell phone rang.

He walked over to the couch and slumped down on it in exhaustion. He held the cell phone display up to read it, to make sure that Sheila wasn't calling back again. The knot in his stomach loosened somewhat when he saw that the incoming call was coming from Gordon's cell phone. He answered the call.

"Jim?"

There was a moment's pause on the other end. "No, sir, it's Detective Joe Murdock."

"Why are you calling me from Gordon's phone?"

"Sir, I'm sorry to have to tell you this, but Commissioner Gordon had a heart attack."

Garcia leaned forward. "What?!"

"It happened about an hour ago. He's just been taken to the hospital."

 _You have got to be fucking kidding me._ "What are his prospects?" Garcia massaged his temple with concern.

"I don't know, sir, but he didn't look good when he left."

"Jesus. Has someone notified Barbara?"

"I believe one of Gordon's men was able to reach her already with the news." _Or not._ Murdock smiled.

"Is Lieutenant Brumfield aware?"

"No, sir, I haven't been able to reach him yet." _Probably because I haven't tried to._

Garcia let his head fall backward on the couch. _This night is un-fucking-believable._ His mind raced, as he formed a contingency plan ."I'll try to get in touch with Brumfield. In the meantime, I need you to reroute some police officers, on my authority. There was an escape tonight from Gotham Max. Twenty-three death row inmates were freed, and we need officers dispatched to the area."

Murdock stiffened. _That wasn't the Joker's doing._ "Of course, sir, I'll send out the directive immediately."

"Good. And while you're at it, start rounding up a team to figure out why someone would want to free only those inmates, Detective."

Like a gear clicking as it rotated onto its next cog, Murdock realized what the motive must be. The warning that the Batman had given to him on Gordon's phone earlier sprang to mind. He spoke up. "Sir, I have a theory on what that prison escape is related to."

Annoyance was evident in Garcia's voice. "Well? Don't keep me waiting, Detective."

Murdock cleared his throat. "Coincidentally, it relates to the second thing I was calling you about."

Garcia stood up and paced toward his desk. "You mean there's something _else_ aside from Gordon having a heart attack?" _God damn it to hell!_

"Well, sir… yes. It also relates to Gordon, something I've just uncovered by accident. I'm very sorry to be the one to tell you this," Murdock lied through his teeth, "are you sitting down?"

Garcia dropped himself into the leather chair, and it rolled backward until it hit the windowsill behind him. "I am now. What is it?"

The mayor sat in stunned silence as the detective told him what had recently transpired in Gordon's office after the heart attack: Murdock recounted the chance conversation with the Batman on Gordon's cell phone, along with the alleged bounty put on the Joker's head by Vincent Maroni; an action, Murdock theorized, that likely tied to the freeing of the prisoners for use as mercenaries.

The news of a bounty on the Joker didn't jar Garcia half as much as the illumination of the Gotham police commissioner's betrayal, and blatant defiance of an order. Garcia reasoned that it wasn't likely that the Batman had just called Gordon out of the blue for the first time; to the contrary, Gordon had likely never severed his connection with the masked vigilante at all. The epiphany hit like a punch to the gut.

The mayor's blood boiled: Gordon had played him for a fool. Garcia had chosen Gordon… _chosen_ him to take the helm of the police department, after the Joker murdered the former police commissioner, Loeb.

And this was his thanks: Commissioner Gordon was party not only to obstruction of justice, but also to aiding and abetting the Batman.

After Murdock had spilled what he knew, Garcia offered a weak reply, disjointed and distant. He terminated the call and stared unfocused at his desk, mumbling to himself. "Gordon, you back-stabbing son of a bitch." Then the mayor picked up a marble paperweight and threw it with all his strength across the room, smashing a photo of him shaking Jim Gordon's hand.

 _This doesn't happen. Not in_ my _house. Gordon's going down for this. Hard._

________________________________

The cursor was blinking at him.

The horrified man sat in silence in the back of the darkened limousine, trying not to let his emotions betray him as he stared at the laptop screen. The blue glow was the only thing illuminating the inside of the car.

The cursor wasn't supposed to be blinking. He was supposed to see a confirmation code.

_Blink. Blink. Blink._

The man jumped when Lex Luthor spoke and shattered the silence. "You look tense, Bill." There was a tone of knowing in his voice. "Anything the matter?" His words were casual, belying the anger that was slowly mounting underneath the cool façade.

 _Oh, sweet Mary. This isn't happening to me, not with Lex Luthor right here to see it._ "No, no." He shook his head for emphasis, voice cracking. "Just a little delay. I'm working around it." Bill couldn't make eye contact. He kept his eyes fixed on the screen, and repeated the sequence of keystrokes that was supposed to produce a confirmation code. But the code wasn't forthcoming.

_Blink. Blink. Blink._

Lex looked out the window. "I'm a patient man, Bill. I can wait for you to _work around_ your _little delay_." Oh, yes. Lex knew something had arisen that was unforeseen. The faint, rank odor of fear wafted off the man who sat beside him.

He had every reason to be afraid.

Bill swallowed. He knew what happened to people who didn't deliver on promises made to Lex Luthor. And he had promised him that his proprietary program would work. It was the only one of its kind in the private sector.

But the program _wasn't_ working. He knew it, and Lex knew it.

As if reading his thoughts, Lex continued: "The reason why I sought you out, Bill, is because I believed that you are the best at what you do. You entered MIT at age fourteen, leaving your small South Dakota home behind, and with it, your parents and disabled younger sister."

Bill's left leg began to bounce up and down as terrified energy coursed through him.

"The other students were rather threatened by your intellectual prowess, and you were targeted by more than one fraternity house as the butt of some rather cruel pranks. I heard what the Sigma Phi Epsilon boys did to you during the Boston Marathon that first April at college." He tilted his head slightly, in mock condolence. "That had to be a humiliation beyond words."

Bill lowered his face in shame and embarrassment. How had Luthor found out about that? His eye started to twitch.

"You graduated college at seventeen, earned your Doctorate by age twenty-one and soon were teaching students in Cambridge who were older than you were. You had made a promise to your father that you'd have your PhD by age twenty-two, and you made good on that promise, didn't you? Hmm, you _used_ to be accountable for promises made."

The man felt his bowels churn. He consciously clenched his haunches, praying he wouldn't shit himself right there in the limousine's back seat.

"Then you left the ivory towers next to the Charles River and went to work at the Pentagon, living out of an apartment on M Street in D.C. Isn't that right?"

He looked up at Lex. The blue light of the laptop screen cast ebony shadows into Lex's eyes, but the malice was still visible. Bill's mouth went dry.

"You put in nineteen years with the Pentagon before going private and contracting for telecommunications companies. You're currently visiting Metropolis from your home in Herndon, Virginia, where you live with your wife and twin daughters. They attend Morningside Elementary School. Their homeroom teacher is Mrs. Metzke."

_Blink. Blink. Blink._

Beads of sweat formed on the man's brow. His lip started to quiver. "Mr. Luthor—"

"You see, Bill," Lex interrupted, "when people make promises to me and they don't deliver, it's a waste of my time. Wasted time has consequences." A faint smile played at the corners of his lips. "Far-reaching consequences."

"Are y—you threatening my family?"

A manufactured grin spread across Lex's face. He leaned forward into the light of the computer's glow. His eyes were lifeless. "I'd never think of harming your family, Bill. I'm just saying that if this program doesn't work the way it's supposed to, I'm going to be a very disappointed man."

Bill tucked his upper lip into his mouth, tasting salty drops of sweat. "I think the D.O.D. has a jamming program—"

"I don't want excuses, Bill."

"N—no, of course not." He swallowed and sought the words to rephrase his stance. "I can make it work, Mr. Luthor. It's just going to take a little more time."

Lex nodded. His smile was gone. "I know you're going to make it work, Bill. You have no other choice."

Lex unclenched a fist, splayed the fingers and felt the black calfskin glove stretch against the back of his hand. Then he balled his fist closed again and looked out the window. Issuing threats with icy reserve was a skill he'd long ago mastered. He was a professional at projecting a veneer of cold confidence.

Yet right now, it was only a projection. Inwardly, Lex was twisted up with nervous anticipation. He had come too far, and had waited for too long to bring this moment to fruition, for something to go wrong now. Failure at this point was not an acceptable outcome.

This was a personal vendetta.

In spite of himself, Lex smiled, as he recognized that an incident from his past was, at long last, coming full-circle.

He was reminded of one of his favorite classes while studying at a private academy in his youth: though he had excelled in science and mathematics, classical studies had been his true passion. A very lonely and isolated youth, Lex had passed the time by losing himself in the fantastical mythological stories born of ancient Greece. He would spend hours alone in his room, hypothesizing "what if" scenarios for each myth, theorizing how the stories could be altered and how the resulting mythology would unfold.

One day, while envisioning the gods swapping powers with each other, an entirely new thought struck him: What if all the gods lost their powers altogether?

What if even the gods on Mount Olympus could fall?

Lex had been giddy with excitement when he'd learned his Humanities teacher had given the students carte blanche to write their semester's final exam in essay form, on any topic they chose. For two weeks, Lex had painstakingly crafted his challenge to the infallibility of the gods. His enthusiasm on the topic had even managed to catch the attention and sanction of his father, whose interactions with Lex were usually fleeting acknowledgements, at best. It was quite rare for him to take any interest in Lex's pursuits at all.

Yet for all Lex's efforts in writing the essay, his reward was emotional devastation in the form of academic rejection.

C Minus.

No one gave Lex Luthor a grade of C Minus. But his Humanities teacher _had._

The teacher had been less than amused with Lex's theories, and offered no appreciation for the creativity necessary to foster such ideas. Instead, the teacher had seen the Luthor boy's work as insolent tomfoolery. He'd condescendingly told Lex that gods were gods, and that was the way it was. No questions asked, no challenges accepted.

But Lex _did_ have questions. He was a naturally curious boy. He didn't like to accept things just because he was told to; he wanted to see things with his own eyes, and prove that the improbable could be possible.

Naturally, Lionel Luthor had arranged for the school council to dismiss the teacher immediately without severance for the outrage, despite an academic tenure approaching twenty-two years. Lex's mark was expunged from his academic record, reinstating his pristine 4.0 grade point average.

Lex never stopped questioning things. Funny how some curiosities only waxed with time and circumstance.

It was also funny how fate could unfold, to present the stage upon which to vindicate oneself for everyone to see.

As he sat in the darkened limousine, Lex wondered where that teacher was today. It would be delightful to watch him acknowledge just how wrong he had been to judge Lex the way he had. The teacher hadn't understood, nor had he appreciated, just how gifted Lex was.

Lex had vision. Not just vision, but foresight into what _could_ be.

What _would_ be.

No one – not even Superman – was infallible.

Tonight, Lex Luthor would prove that even a god could be toppled.

________________________________

To Edward Tritt's amusement, it hadn't taken long for a Gotham Police squad car to respond to the emergency request he'd sent out through the taxi cab's communications system. Not long at all.

As the squad car approached, Edward waved his hands in the air, and pointed to the body of the cab driver he'd just murdered. The car screeched to a halt several yards away, and a female cop in the passenger side of the car got out first. Her hand was on the gun in her holster. "Sir, I need you to back away from the taxi!"

Edward knew he'd have to explain his prison guard's uniform, immediately. "Yeah! I know! Look," Edward motioned toward the dead cab driver, "there was a prison break earlier tonight at Gotham Max, and I trailed some of the inmates to this area. I saw them shoot this guy, as well as the driver of that Maxima. Then they bolted, and I used the cab to call for help."

The cop approached the scene with trepidation. She surveyed the fallen cab driver, then peered into the Maxima to see a man shot through the head. She lifted the radio affixed to her collar up to her mouth, and waved back to the cop still in the driver seat. "Call for an ambulance. We need back-up here, now!"

"Uh, I can't let you do that, sweetheart." She turned back to Edward to find his arm extended toward her with a cocked handgun. It was evident she wasn't wearing a Kevlar vest, so he fired two rounds into her chest, puncturing her pancreas and destroying the left ventricle of her heart. Before the cop in the driver's seat could get to his gun, Jonas Hodge shot him in the head from his concealed position behind the Maxima. Then he came around the car toward Edward.

"Okay, man, you got your cop car that you wanted, and now we got two dead police officers. You mind telling me what your game plan is?"

Edward nodded, and pulled out a folded piece of paper from his pants pocket. "Follow me." Jonas followed him around the corner to the laundry truck he'd parked out of sight. Edward motioned to the guard sitting in the cab to get his weapon, and all three walked to the back of the truck. Edward gave his instructions. "Okay, boys, have those guns ready. We got only two prisoners we want coming out right now. Anyone else gets out of the truck, and you shoot 'em, got it?

Both men nodded, and held the assault rifles up to their shoulders at the ready. Edward unlocked the door, threw the latch, and the track door receded upward toward the inside ceiling of the cargo area. Twenty-three menacing-looking faces glared back at him.

One of the prisoners voiced his anger. "And just how fucking long do you think we're gonna wait, asshole?"

A chorus of "yeah's" followed. Edward hadn't seen who'd made the remark. The guards flanking him tilted their heads down toward the gun sights, showing they meant business. Edward held out the piece of paper. "About fifteen more minutes. Then we're all going on a scavenger hunt. Right now, there are two of you who are gonna follow me."

A large man in the back stepped forward. "How do we know you're not gonna keep the rest of us locked up longer, after you let two of us go?"

Edward smirked. "Because I'm going to need every last one of you to help wrangle up the Joker. He's not going to come willingly. But for right now, I need the following prisoners to step forward: prisoner number 657808 and number 611374. C'mon down, boys, it's your lucky night."

Two men stepped forward with suspicion on their faces. They hopped down out of the truck and ambled with caution around Edward. Edward stepped forward, and flipped the electric switch to draw the door down again to close it. A barrage of four-letter words peppered him from the mouths of the men who remained inside the laundry truck's hold. After the door closed and he latched it, a few prisoners inside kicked at it and pounded on it with their fists. More threats followed.

Edward barked his order: "You, stay here and keep an eye on the truck." The older guard nodded and kept his gun at his shoulder. "You two," Edward pointed at the two prisoners, "are coming with us." Jonas motioned toward the police car with the semiautomatic rifle. Both men begrudgingly followed Edward to the driver's side of the police car.

Edward opened the driver's door, and pulled the body of the dead officer out, tossing him unceremoniously in the gutter by the curb, then climbed into the driver's seat, and swung a computer monitor forward from the center dashboard. He positioned the screen so that both prisoners could see it from where they stood near the open driver's door, Jonas Hodge pointing a gun in their backs. Edward Trittt turned around to face them, and a shit-eating grin crossed his face. "You boys both have a little something in common with each other. That's why I need you."

The prisoners looked at each other with uncertainty.

Edward looked at the paper again. "657808…" he looked at the front of the men's uniforms to match the numbers. "You," he pointed at the shorter of the two prisoners. "I see here that you're awaiting execution for double homicide. You killed two women in a parking lot outside of a fitness club. But you raped 'em first. Both of them. And that wasn't the first time you've raped women." Edward pulled out a red can of Skoal from his shirt pocket, and stuck a wad of chewing tobacco into his mouth. "I read in your file that you'd even raped a few young boys, you sick fuck."

657808 narrowed his eyes and tensed. He said nothing, but kept his gaze fixed on Edward.

"And _you_ ," Edward pointed toward the other man, "You're on death row for raping and murdering a fourteen-year old girl at a carnival where you used to work. You've also got a long history of raping women and girls."

The prisoner grinned. "Each of them wanted it. I didn't rape anyone. It was consensual, but they changed their stories after the fact."

"Yeah, whatever, asshole." Edward looked both men up and down, cheek bulging from the tobacco. "Well, I know something that you boys _don't_ know. I don't think that even Jonas knows it, either."

Jonas felt his stomach muscles clench. He had no idea where Edward was going with this, and it made him uneasy. He kept the gun trained on the prisoners.

"Technically, the warden at Gotham Max violated your rights as citizens." Edward smiled his approval. "He had the balls to pull the number right under the noses of Gotham's lawyers and the ACLU, too. The warden authorized both of you to be chipped."

The first prisoner's face went white. The second knotted his brow in confusion. Edward explained: "Mircrochipped. Every violent sex offender, even the ones on death row, they all get one implanted during the admittance medical examination. None of you are supposed to know about it. They're hidden well. I know where it is on each of you, but I'm not telling."

The first prisoner gritted his teeth. "Yeah, so what?"

"So," Edward leaned forward, "you boys aren't the only ones with these chips. Any violent sexual offender who served in Gotham Max over the last four years has got one in 'em. I want you to look at this screen."

As both prisoners leaned forward toward the monitor, Jonas' curiosity got the better of him, walking over to stand next to the open driver's door next to his colleague. "What is that, man?"

"It's a direct line to the ViCAP database. Every police car in Gotham is outfitted with one. I'm pulling up every violent sex offender who served time in Gotham Max over the last 4 years."

Jonas shrugged, "Why?"

"I'll tell you why. Because rapists who later graduate to murder, like these two, they always gather a bit of a fan base in prison among the rapists who _haven't_ murdered yet. And those 'fans' tend to talk. You know, they spill their own secrets. They do it to impress the men who _have_ killed, because they want to trade information. You know, get pointers on how they committed their crimes. Those rapists want to learn how to kill, so they can graduate to something more dangerous."

Both prisoners nodded their concurrence. When they were in gen pop, there were always some men orbiting around them in awe, hoping to hear details of the gruesome crimes. Looking for tips, or sexual gratification from listening to the violent stories.

Edward tapped the screen and the first face of an ex-con appeared from the ViCAP database. "I'm going to show you both the face of every man who served time for rape in Gotham Max within the last four years, who's not in prison now. Every one of 'em will be chipped. You two are going to tell me which faces you recognize, and which ones mentioned any contact with the Joker."

Both prisoners looked at each other, shrugged, and nodded. They had nothing to lose.

As the faces appeared one by one on the screen, both men studied them. Jonas watched the screen, too. Edward watched the faces of the prisoners. He addressed the first prisoner. "Hey, what's your name?"

The first prisoner glanced at him warily. "Vasquez."

Edward nodded and offered a smile. "Well, I thank you, _Vasquez,_ for your assistance in this matter. You might help to make all of us very, very rich tonight." Then Edward looked at the other man. "And you, too. What's your name?"

The prisoner crossed his arms. His eyes were cold. "My given name is James Mathesson." Then he smiled maliciously. "But everyone calls me 'Smitty'."

________________________________

Jones sat motionless in the passenger seat of the tumbler prototype, arms folded tightly across his body. He was afraid to touch anything, yet too exhausted to appreciate fully how rare it was for a civilian to see the inside of the vehicle. He wanted it to be tomorrow. Or next week. Or next year, just anything just to make this awful day a distant memory.

As the weight of the night's activities descended upon him, he felt crushed with remorse. After all that had happened, he was now set to betray the Joker's confidence by showing the Batman exactly where to find him. Jones had a knot in his stomach. He wanted to believe the promise of protection from the Joker offered to him by the Batman… but there was a nagging feeling that something wasn't being accounted for. Any oversight when it came to the Joker was most certainly deadly.

He went over his situation again in his mind: he had no other choice… if he didn't collaborate with the Batman, surely one of the bounty hunters would get to him. If not a bounty hunter, then someone from inside the Mob. Maybe the Belarussians. Jones was a marked man. No matter which way he looked at it, this was the only option. He had given up to the Batman all that he was privy to so far, save for the Joker's actual location.

Still, he couldn't escape the feeling that he'd left a base uncovered somewhere.

While combing over in his mind what he'd told the Batman already, he was roused from his thoughts by the sharp hiss of a hydraulic pump retracting the top of the vehicle, allowing the large man to hurdle himself into the driver's seat like a gymnast. The vehicle's roof slid back into place, heavy in sound like the lid of a sarcophagus closing. Jones had to wonder if it were a metaphor for his own doomed fate being sealed. He watched with fascination as the man's gloved hand tapped a screen, working with a touch-interactive system.

The Batman's gravelly voice broke the silence. "I need you to tell me the location of the weapons the Joker stole from the Mob, and how far they are from where the Joker is now."

Jones nodded weakly. "Yeah, I'm taking you there."

The dark figure narrowed his eyes at the man in the passenger seat. "The Joker has the weapons at his current base of operation?" Ready access to firepower of that magnitude would make any attempts at breaching the Joker's stronghold even more dangerous.

"Uh huh. He doesn't seem particularly interested in them, though. He stole them because he could, because he's a shit-stirrer. He keeps them in the cellar."

"Cellar? He's operating out of a house?"

Jones nodded. "A row house, not far from the Narrows. Near the water."

"And you said that there are eight men that you know of, who work for the Joker right now."

Jones was starting to fade. "Did I say 'eight'?"

The Batman snapped his fingers in front of Jones' face. "I need you to focus, Jones, this is extremely important. You said that there were nine men total, eight since Wallace was killed. Are any of them at that house with him right now?"

The nagging uncertainty returned to Jones' mind. That number didn't seem right. Had he missed someone? "Um," he exhaled slowly and closed his eyes, "let me think… Barker would be there, Curtis would have returned… so at least two."

The Batman nodded, and checked that the voice recognition software was recording Jones' words. He looked at the names translated onto the screen. "You said 'Barker' and 'Curtis'. Then there's you, and Wallace. Who are the other five?"

Jones held up his hand to count. "Kosaczyk and Darnell were sent out together. And then there's Lucas, Hobbs and Lundgren."

Phonetic matches of varied spellings for each name appeared on the screen. "Where were those men sent?"

"I don't know. The Joker didn't tell us. He liked to be the only one in the know. I got the feeling that he purposely left out details, so none of us can find out from the others what's happening. The only way to know everything is to ask him directly. There ain't any of us stupid enough to do that. Only one guy ever made that mistake, that I saw myself. The Joker sliced him from ear to ear under the jaw, on the spot. We don't ask, and he sure as hell won't tell."

The Batman nodded. "That's a common sign of paranoia. He knows that criminals instinctively don't trust other criminals, so he shares different elements of his plans with different men. He knows that none of you will collaborate to piece together what his grand plan is. He'll never reveal all details to any one person."

Jones shrugged. "I don't know what he's afraid of. He scares the shit out of all of us, and none of us would try to betray him right under his nose." _But we would if we were cornered by the Caped Crusader of Gotham and given no viable alternative. Jesus, Mary and Joseph, I hope I know what I'm doing._

The Batman easily read Jones' trepidation. "No matter how much he terrifies you, he's afraid as well."

Jones scoffed. "The Joker's not afraid of anything. That's what makes him so dangerous."

The Batman countered, "There's always the fear in the back of his mind that someone within his crew may try to challenge his position as king of the castle. That's why he's selective about what he does and doesn't say."

Jones looked down at his feet in distraction. Something about the Batman's choice of words stirred up that nagging feeling again that he'd forgotten something. "Yeah, I guess so…" Jones recalled that Curtis used to boast that he could probably take on the Joker and win in a bare-knuckles fight. The irony, of course, was that the Joker never came unarmed to any fight. Surely that was all talk on Curtis' part – it would be suicide for him to actually try to challenge the Joker.

The Batman could tell that Jones was nearly overcome with exhaustion. This was not the time for Jones to go soft. Time was of the essence, so he dropped the register of his voice to command attention. "Jones we need to leave now. I need more than just a general location of the Joker. I need the address."

Jones shrunk back. "Are you going in after him yourself? Alone?" It was evident that Jones was stalling, fearful of committing the final betrayal against a madman.

"No, I made a call."

"S—so, you called… for back up?"

A single nod.

"Who'd you call?"

"I called the Gotham PD." The Batman saw Jones' eyes grow wider. "Listen, you will be under my protection. I will make sure that you're not taken into custody for your past collaboration with the Joker." _Just tell me the damned address already._

Jones was weary. He rubbed at his forehead. "M'kay." His voice revealed complete defeat. "Like I said, it's near the water, close to the Narrows. There aren't really any street signs. When we get closer, I'll show you where to go from there."

The Batman's brow furrowed as he brought up a satellite imaged map of the city. If he pushed Jones any more for a precise location, it might backfire. He had no choice but to wait for further instruction while on the road. He started up the vehicle, still obscured behind a dumpster next to Flesh For Fantasy, and he revved the engine. "From where we are, I think we can make it to the waterfront area near the Narrows in fifteen minutes." He pictured Lois' terrified face from the videos. _God-willing, she's still alive. Maybe I can even get to her within the hour._

Jones leaned his head back, and looked absently at the roof. "I think you can make it in ten. Wallace made it back from this club in ten minutes earlier tonight." He nodded, confirming his own projection. "Ten."

_Ten minutes. That's all it should take._

_Ten._

_Ten short minutes, and I could be face to face with the psychopath I'm betraying, as the Batman sets out to attack the 'king' inside of his own 'castle', as he put it. God almighty—_

Jones stiffened as recollections congealed into perspective.

_Ten… king of the castle… Batman… the police…_

Suddenly, a bolt of fear shot through Jones, and he shrieked. " _Wait!_ "

The outburst actually startled the Batman. "What is it?"

 _Oh my God, I forgot about the deck of cards!_ "T—ten! It's _ten_ men, working for the Joker! Not nine!"

The Batman surveyed him with caution. "I need you to be sure, Jones."

"I am! There are ten men! And you—you can't go after the 'king' in his castle – you _are_ the 'king', Batman! The Joker said so!"

The Batman blinked, wondering if exhaustion and fear had eroded the man's logic. "You're not making sense – what does that mean?"

Jones shifted with frantic energy in the seat. "The Joker… it's like he sees everything as a game, right?" Jones stammered, "I heard him talk—talking one night – jeez, this would have been months ago... it was to himself, really, not to—not to any of us, although some of us were in the room. He does that, you know? Sometimes he starts talking, and you can't be sure if he's talking to you, or at you, or if he even knows you're there." Jones was rambling with nervous energy. The Batman said nothing to interrupt him, to allow him to continue with his train of thought.

"He was talking about you, and about himself… he uses different names for you, Batman, depending on his mood. It's a game to him. This time, he was talking about you—and about all of us – like we were all part of a deck of cards. He said that you both were the most important cards in the deck. You were the only 'face card' he would allow to be played on the table. That's how he said it, whatever that means. He's the joker card, of course, but you… he said you were the king. Then he said something about the number ten – that ten was the crew number that worked best, because we were like a card suit to him. He said he liked having faceless playing cards underneath him."

The Batman listened and envisioned the Joker's twisted logic: ever the prankster without regard for human life, the Joker would objectify his men and see them as mere game pieces; playing cards to be discarded as he chose after they'd served their purpose.

Jones nodded as he pieced it together in his own mind. "I didn't really know what it meant until now, but now I get it: he thinks of each of us as a playing card. I didn't think it meant anything, until now, right? I just thought it was more of his crazy talk. Spades – he said we were all different cards in the suit of spades. He likes that suit because they look like knives. That's what he said."

The Batman shook his head almost imperceptibly. _Only the Joker could turn something as innocuous as a deck of cards into something with such a sinister meaning._

"He once pointed at me and called me 'three'. I didn't know what that meant. Do you think I'm the Three of Spades, in his mind?"

The Batman processed it. "Possibly. I need you to focus, Jones – you're saying that because there are ten cards in the suit of spades without faces, there are ten men in the Joker's crew."

Jones looked off to the side, then back at the Batman and nodded. "Yeah, there'd have to be ten of us."

"So which man did you forget to account for?"

Jones shook his head. "All I know is that he's an insider in the GPD." He closed his eyes and strained to remember. "Hitchcock, or Bullock… Paddock, something like that. I've never met him face to face. I only heard his name once."

The Batman felt himself sicken with a tense anticipation. " _Murdock_?"

Jones stared for a moment, then recognition registered on his face. "That's it! His name was Mur—how did you know?"

The Batman didn't blink. He couldn't reveal his own fear at the egregious error he'd unwittingly made with his failed attempt to reach Gordon. "Because I just spoke to him on the phone, thinking he could be trusted. He's in the commissioner's inner circle."

Jones nodded. "Just where the Joker planted him."

The Batman's vision swayed from the implications. _My God, how long has Jim been working with that traitor? Every move he's made over the last year has probably been relayed to the Joker. That's why the GPD has never been able to catch him!_

Suddenly, Jones processed the Batman's words. "Wait a minute, when you spoke to him, did you tell him what I told you?" His voice crescendoed. "Did you give him my _name?!_ "

The Batman's silence was confirmation.

Panic overcame Jones. "Then he _knows_ about me? He knows that I'm leading you to the _Joker_?!" He started to hyperventilate. "When he tells the Joker, I'm a dead man!"

"Listen to me: we have no time left." The Batman turned away from Jones, engaging the vehicle's gears. He peeled down the alley and cornered hard. "Street address or not, I need you to tell to me how to get to that row house, now! As soon as Murdock informs the Joker, his lead on us will increase, and I may lose him. Where is he?"

Jones watched as the streetlamps flew by in a blur, and the broken yellow line down the middle of the street turned solid from the speed they were picking up. In a small voice, he spoke: "I can't let him get to me."

The Batman shook his head. "He won't, Jones, I won't let him."

His voice had fallen to a whisper, out of earshot from the Batman. "No, _I_ won't let him." He looked over at the Batman, who hadn't heard him. The rear center console created a divide between Jones and the driver's seat, which the Batman couldn't possibly straddle while maintaining control of the vehicle.

Jones knew this was the only moment when he could capitalize on that distance.

He reached down and pulled up his right pant leg down by the ankle. A knife was strapped to his leg. By the time the Batman processed what was happening, both he and Jones knew there was nothing he could do to intercede.

"I'm sorry, Batman." Jones opened the knife, and jammed it into his own neck at the jugular, all the way up to the hilt.

________________________________

He was upon her. Again.

Lois had lost count of how many times the Joker had man-handled her since the night of hell began.

She was on her back, and he was on top of her.

And he was laughing.

His rank breath filled her nostrils, and the ends of his hair grazed her face as his head bobbed up and down with each spasm of taunting mirth.

Then the Joker sat up and rested himself on her hips, as she lay prostrate and stunned. He cocked his head as he looked down at her.

And he laughed.

And laughed.

She waited for the laughter to abate. It didn't. He wasn't stopping.

To the contrary, his laughter was growing louder.

"Stop it!" Her voice sounded petulant in her own ears, but she had to make him stop.

He didn't. His laughter transitioned from a throaty guffaw to a high-pitched cackle.

" _Stop it!"_ Lois yelled at him with everything she had.

The pitch crescendoed. His eyes grew wider, and his smile broadened. His laughing seemed to be picking up momentum.

"Stop laughing at me!"

His cackle was maniacal. She felt that she would go mad from the sound. It was a cacophonous screeching like that of birds. It assaulted her from every direction. She covered up her ears, but the sound wouldn't go away.

"You have _nothing,_ Lois!" He choked out his words, gasping for air. "There is no way out of this situation for you! _None_! Do you really think that there's anything that you could offer me that will change your position?"

His cackling resumed.

Her voice cracked. "Stop laughing!"

"Do you think that I'll take _pity_ on you, or bestow some sort of _favor_ on you, if you offer me sexual favors like a common _whore_?" His yellow teeth looked like something out of a Grimm Fairy Tale. A tale involving a wolf and a little girl in a red hooded cape.

"I hate you!"

"Oh, but I _lllllllike_ you, Lois!" He gripped his sides as the laughing grew louder still.

Anger and desperation overtook her. "Stop that laughing! Stop it now, you God-forsaken fucking _freak!_ "

The Joker's gasp for air wasn't followed with another cackle. It was followed by silence. The grin froze.

Everything seemed to freeze... a metaphor for a line crossed that shouldn't have been.

The mirthful expression on his face slowly faded. The corners of his mouth drew downward, until his lips were closed. He tipped his chin down to his chest.

"Wha _t_?"

Lois didn't respond. She glared at him.

"What. What did you _just_. Call me?"

She narrowed her eyes at him. "You heard me."

"No, I don't believe that I di _d._ " He balled his fists and leaned forward to the floor until he was balancing on his knuckles, on either side of her shoulders. "What was that word?"

Lois reasoned that he was going to kill her no matter what. He'd practically admitted so just now himself. She may as well get her licks in where she could. _"Freak."_

He narrowed his eyes back at her. "I'd advise you to, ah," (smack) "be _judicious_ in using that word, Loissss."

She'd clearly struck a nerve. _Good._ "Get off me, freak."

He worked his mouth. "Don't. Don' _t_ say that to me like that—"

Lois lifted her head off the floor, to scream it in his face. _"FREAK!"_

What might have passed as a smirk flashed on his face for a fraction of a second. Only a fraction.

Then he spoke. His voice wasn't the tinny-sounding clown voice, nor was it the menacing boom of a threatening register she'd heard earlier. It was… normal. Flat. A man's voice; not a clown's, and not a monster's.

A man's. The normalcy of it was unnerving, and incongruous to the man himself.

"Alright, then, Lois Lane. If you insist." The voice of a very human man, who was experiencing the very human emotion of rage that was bubbling below the surface.

That rage compromised his heretofore agile movements. He staggered to his feet quickly but without grace. He grabbed her wrists and dragged her across the room to the side of the couch. Barker was seated against the wall, holding his knees to his chest. The Joker addressed him flatly, in his very human voice. "Barker, back to the hole. Be our eyes."

Barker nodded furiously, and scampered to his feet, having received the order to monitor the surveillance cameras from the basement. He was genuinely frightened. He'd never heard Mr. Joker use that voice before. Something was wrong. Very wrong.

The Joker hoisted Lois up to her feet and gripped her jaw with force, bringing her face to his. His eyelids were fluttering, and his eyes appeared to be darting around the room. As if he were searching for something. A memory, perhaps. Or a defense. Or the tenuous grip he might still have on sanity.

Whatever it was, he found it. His eyes opened wide and he focused on Lois. The terrifying timbre of a clown's voice had returned. "You think you know what a 'freak' is, Lois?"

Her eyes darted back and forth across his face, not knowing which of his crazed eyes to focus her attention on. Her peripheral vision caught his arm arcing upward with something in it.

_A knife!_

But it wasn't a knife. It was a remote control. While watching her face, he extended his arm and turned on two televisions behind her.

The Joker tipped his chin down to his chest, regarding her from under furrowed eyebrows. Black malice stained his eyes. "You ain't seen _nothing,_ yet, sweetheart." His tongue snaked out and licked his lips. "I'll _show_ you the meaning of the word 'freak'."

The smile was back. The scars seemed to extend it all the way out to his ears.

Lois realized that his could be the last face she ever would see. Ever.

He leapt over the armrest of the couch, and pulled Lois into his lap with a sharp yank. He spun her around so her back was against his chest, and she was sitting between his legs. He wrapped his arms around her tightly from behind, and rested his chin on her shoulder. They were cheek to cheek, facing the televisions.

His breath was hot against her ear. "Let the lesson begin."

Lois heard screams. They were coming from the televisions, as news feeds of Gotham's panicked citizens flashed on the screens, showing footage of the city burning.

Without preface, the Joker ran a hand up the inside of her leg, and slowly licked the edge of her ear with the pointed tip of his tongue.

Lois heard another scream. This time, it was her own.

________________________________

. . . . . . .

Author's Notes for "Epiphanies"

. . . . . . .

_In Chapter 38, "Into The Funhouse", the Joker tells Lois a very detailed story about how he received the Glasgow Smile he wears: he was carved up by two men in a carnival funhouse. One of them, a rapist who had served time in prison, was named Smitty. Again, I leave it to the reader's interpretation as to whether the Joker's scar story was true. Either Smitty was one of the two men who actually *did* give the Joker his scars, or perhaps the Joker crossed paths with Smitty at one point, and decided to use him in the scar story. If you choose to believe that all of the Joker's scar story was true, then Smitty would have moved on to murder shortly after the Joker rescued Lana. Lana may very well have been the first woman that Smitty would have killed (had the Joker not interceded), instead of the girl Smitty did kill, subsequently landing him on death row._

_-4oC 2009.06.16_


	41. Almost

*** ALMOST ***

**Chapter 41**

**. . . . . . .**

One month before the Joker had escaped from Arkham, an event transpired that never made it into his case file.

The Joker had an extended conversation with another patient.

For the safety of everyone – doctors, patients and the orderlies – the Joker was seldom afforded the liberty of interacting with others in the asylum. When fleeting opportunities arose for him to speak to another patient, no reciprocated conversation ever precipitated. Aside from the patients who were mired too deeply in their own psychoses to be cognizant of others, everyone else knew enough to keep to themselves and not to make eye contact with the Joker. Doing so only invited trouble.

Some patients, whose grasp on reality was already tenuous at best, thought the Joker was an actual monster instead of a man. Despite his not having access to the signature face paint, still others thought him to be something from hell itself. Having as fearsome a man as the Joker around people whose psyches were were already impressionable and damaged wasn't the best recipe for positive growth, so the patients were always forewarned when the Joker would be brought out into the common areas.

As a result, when he did speak to anyone, the unfortunate who had drawn the focus of his attention either turned and ran cowering to a corner of the room, or simply froze in place and stared wide eyed and slack-jawed at the Chelsea grin. A few of the more timid patients had even burst into tears. One caulrophobic patient named Steven had wet himself on the spot before convulsing.

The Joker's records would show that in his six months' stay, no sustained interaction with another patient had ever been documented. Doctors recorded his outbursts and verbal taunts of the other patients, but a two-sided conversation had never been witnessed.

That was because the only conversation the Joker ever had with another patient took place without the doctors' knowledge or consent.

It happened in the middle of the night. Only once. That's all that he needed to satiate his… curiosity.

The hallway security camera didn't catch the irregular movement in the corridor. Shortly after the Joker's admittance five months earlier, video surveillance had been routinely… _suspended_ outside of his cell. It was a poorly kept secret that the orderlies administered beatings to the Joker after the nighttime lockdown, when the mood struck them. To avoid any investigation by the Patients' Rights Advocate Group of Gotham or the ACLU, the orderlies and security staff had an understanding: the camera outside the Joker's cell was to be shut off after lights out. Without video evidence of orderlies going in and out of the Joker's cell, the asylum's exposure to the risk of litigation for breaching patients' rights was greatly reduced.

The doctors pretended not to know of the arrangement.

Ironically, it was the doctors' unspoken complicity with this very breach of security that facilitated the Joker's surreptitious meeting.

One evening, while moving cell-to-cell delivering dinner, an new orderly got sloppy with safety protocol and made the mistake of turning his back to the Joker after entering his cell. A few hours earlier, the Joker had escaped his restraints and been lying in wait for the man to enter. He overpowered the smaller orderly with ease, and threatened to sic his goons outside of Arkham on the man's family, should he not concede to a request. The Joker's intentions had nothing to do with an escape attempt, nor obtaining an object that could be fashioned into a weapon.

Much to the surprise of the orderly, the Joker demanded his help in arranging a covert visit to the cell of another patient. A male patient.

Too humiliated by the prospect of admitting to the staff that he'd let his guard down, and too terrified to affront the most dangerous patient in Arkham's history, the orderly agreed to arrange the rendezvous. He concluded that the Arkham guards' speculations as to the Joker's sexual orientation were true. After-hours cell hopping, facilitated by guards who accepted bribes, generally was driven by sexual intentions. Male patients paid to get into the rooms of the female patients, whose personal safety was trumped by the greed of the guards who turned a deaf ear to the ensuing screams from the rapes. Sometimes men paid to get into the cells of other men for the same purpose. The orderly agreed to arrange the tryst, to keep his family safe from harm. He rationalized that it was better if the Joker raped a random male patient than him personally. He shuddered at the prospect.

Only three people had known that the visit ever occurred: the orderly who smuggled the Joker to and from his cell after the bed check lockdown, the Joker himself, and the patient. Had the doctors heard any rumors of the arrangement, they would have dismissed them. No history of rape had been documented with the Joker, and since no report of physical abuse had been filed, that left a verbal interaction with a patient as the only other rational conclusion for a visit. That would have been uncharacteristic of the psychosis they believed the Joker to have: ever given to crafty calculation, the Joker had led Arkham's doctors to believe that he was a garden-variety sociopath, whose actions were driven by an egomaniacal arrogance and self-confidence.

Although he was indeed self-assured to the point of dismissing the numerous physical dangers he put himself into, the Joker did not harbor a titanic arrogance that imbued him with self-perceived omniscience. To the contrary, the Joker had a thirst for knowledge, and was shrewd enough to recognize in others skills or experience that eclipsed his own. He wasn't threatened by these individuals, rare as they were. Instead, he wanted to learn from them.

 _That_ was the purpose of the meeting.

Ever focused on his imminent escape and reengaging the Batman in their cat and mouse play, the Joker sought to add a weapon to his proverbial arsenal. To do so required engaging a man whose experience in his field was nearly unparalleled, and… _encouraging_ the man, with his own special type of diplomacy, to share with him what he knew.

The conversation between the men lasted just over ninety minutes. That was all the time the Joker needed to get what he sought. However, he did extend the visit an additional seven minutes to thank the patient, by way of mirthful physical and emotional torment.

After being returned to his cell after the clandestine visit, the Joker turned about in his head his newfound information, delighting in the myriad possibilities the skill presented. His tongue worked itself about in his mouth, against the inside of his scars, as he considered the mastery of precision that applying the technique would require.

One month later, the Joker escaped from Arkham, even more dangerous than when he was admitted…

________________________________

…and as Lois Lane's psychological defenses shattered one by one with each passing hour, the Joker watched with vested amusement and waxing anticipation.

Despite his being given to mercurial whims and dangerous spontaneity, the Joker had a keen understanding of strategy. When he had watched his own image being mocked on _Metropolis Live,_ less than twenty-seven hours earlier, he devised a plan for revenge.

The Joker had an exceptional talent for turning attacks back onto his attackers.

He saw how it could all come together: he would use the very institution that affronted him to drive a stake into the heart of Gotham, bleeding from it the last vestiges of hope it so desperately clung to. It would call for exhaustive measures… but the outcome would be worth the effort if chaos ensued…

…and the Batman finally was brought out to play.

Every terror, every cut...

 _every_ violation wrought on Lois had been done with specific intention. He had to break her down, to create her into the vehicle he had intended Harvey Dent to be: a vessel of desperation, a messenger of fear. A beautiful monster.

And if the Arkham patient's knowledge had merit, he could use Lois to damage much more than just the city of Gotham. The Joker suspected that what he learned _did_ have credibility. It had come from a man known for plumbing the depths of psychological torment.

That patient's name was Dr. Jonathon Crane.

________________________________

_No, God damnit! NO!_

The Batman swerved off the road into a deserted parking lot of a closed gas station. Jones' eyes bugged out of his head, and his body reflexively thrashed in the passenger seat as blood pumped down his neck at the self-inflicted wound where the knife was still lodged. As soon as the vehicle stopped, the top retracted and the Batman bounded onto the roll cage encasing the passenger seat. He gingerly pulled Jones from the seat, lifted him over the side and laid him on the asphalt to assess the severity of the puncture. The Batman grimaced, seeing that the entry wound was indeed fatal. Still, he applied pressure to Jones' neck, knowing it was in vain. There was nothing he could do to save Jones' life, save for watching him die as a passive observer.

Eyes wide, as if reading the Batman's thoughts, Jones coughed his words apologetically. "I'm… sorry… Batman…I… I…c—couldn't… let him… get me… kill me…" He winced in agony as the color quickly drained from his face.

The Batman shook his head. "No, he can't hurt you…" his voice trailed off, thinking of the fear the Joker inspired for a man to take his own life so savagely rather than face what the Joker would inflict. The Batman quickly became cognizant of his own desperation, and he snapped his focus back. "…but he can still kill Lois Lane. Jones," he leaned down to the man's face, "you are her only hope."

Jones' eyes grew heavy and he started to fade out. The Batman placed his hands on either side of the man's head and gently lifted it off the ground. "Hey! Jones, you can help me find her. You said the Joker's base is on a street with no name. Give me a cross street."

Jones blinked slowly, and tried to form a reply. The blood in his mouth made his tongue feel sticky, and everything felt so heavy on top of him. He wheezed, and choked out a spray of blood droplets onto his own chest.

"Jones! C'mon, focus. You can do this. A cross street. How do I find him?"

Jones' vision drifted up over the Batman's shoulder. "M—Morrow. Go… west on… Broadland… left… left on Morrow…"

The Batman nodded and narrowed his eyes. "Good, Jones. That's good. How many streets down is it? Is it to the left or right of Morrow?"

Jones worked his lips, but no sound came out.

The Batman pushed as gently as he could for more. "Is there a landmark? A building nearby I can look for?"

Jones closed his eyes. His mouth stopped moving, hanging open and exposing blood-soaked gums and teeth. A hint of a smile curled his mouth upward.

"Jones!"

For all the horror he had seen and participated in that night, Jones died with atonement. He divulged all that he was capable of about the Joker's location, praying for forgiveness as he prayed that the Batman would find the Joker and destroy him. For a man who had routinely lived by the consequences of rules made by others, Jones died on his own terms: the Joker would never have the chance to do him harm.

The same couldn't be said for Lois Lane.

________________________________

As the televisions before her illuminated with live shots of Gotham burning, and the sound feed pumped the screams of helpless people into her ears, Lois felt _him_ enclose her in another unwanted sexual embrace. _This is probably like watching porn for him. He's actually getting aroused by the chaos and destruction he's causing._

When she felt his tongue on her ear and his hand travel up the inside of her leg, she let out a scream of protest. A surge of adrenaline shot through her body, and she threw her head back into him with as much force as she could muster.

It was enough. The back of her skull connected squarely with the side of his face, momentarily stunning him. His grip loosened, and she shot off the couch, backing away from him toward the doorway out to the hallway.

"Awwwwww… ohhhhhhh…" the Joker brought his hand up to the side of his face as he moaned. "Ohhhhhhhh… aaaaaahhhhhh ha haaaaa heh heh." Lois froze as she realized that what she thought were exclamations of distress were actually a feigned show of pain waxing into laughter. "Heh heh, aaaaaah… aha, ha, ah, Lois," (smack) "you got me pretty good there." A broad smile spread across his face.

"Stay away from me!" She wrapped her arms around herself, as if trying to shield his wicked playfulness from consuming her. "I want _out_ of here!"

He sprang to his feet. "Oh, you want _out_ of here, do you? Mmmmm…. well, there's the door," he pointed to the doorless doorframe that led out into the hallway. "You can leave at any time."

Lois hesitated, knowing it couldn't be as simple as that. She also knew she didn't have the luxury of time to figure out what condition he would levy on her attempt to leave, so she took a few cautious steps toward the doorway, keeping her eyes on him. She was building up her momentum for a bolt.

He tipped his chin down to his chest, and something playful danced in his eyes. "Go on," his taunting was accompanied by a waving motion to the doorway, "it's right there. You can do it. Run, Lois. _Run!_ "

So she did.

As she sprinted for the doorway, the Joker stood fixed in his place, giggling. "Oh, _look_ at her go!" He waved his hand at her as she ran out into the hallway. " _Look,_ boys and girls, Lois is making a _break_ for it! How far is she going to _get_?"

Her chest heaving, she quickly assessed that the top of the staircase to the main floor was over to her right. Her legs throbbed in pain from the bruising to her knees, but she pushed forward anyway, not looking back. Her mind screamed at her: _RUN!_

The Joker sauntered over to the open doorway, watching Lois take the stairs as quickly as she could. He licked his lips in anticipation. "Now she's trying to navigate the stairs, boys and girls!" Lois tried to ignore the mocking broadcast coming from her tormentor behind her. "She's putting up the good fight. Our gal Lois _Lane_ is a _fighter_! I think she's got a chance of making it out _yet-ah!"_

 _You know you're not going to make it._ She couldn't listen to the fearful concern of her rational mind. _He's not_ possibly _going to let you go now._ Lois decided she'd debate that once she was outside and on the street. She leaned on the banister with both hands, struggling to maintain her balance and not tumble forward down the stairs. She was halfway down when the Joker walked over to the top step behind her.

"Can she make it down to the first floor without falling, boys and girls? Let's watch and see!"

Three more steps down, and Lois stumbled. She caught herself, and momentarily stopped.

"Oh! She almost fell, but she found her balance! She's not out of the game yet!"

With five more labored steps, Lois was at the bottom. The front door of the house was straight ahead, about fifteen feet, illuminated by a small dingy clerestory window above it. She heard the Joker's weight on the top step behind her as he began his casual descent. "She did it! Let's hear it for our girrrrrrl-ah!" He began to clap as he took each step one by one. "Lois made it down to the first floor away from her wicked, _evil_ kidnapper! Let's give her a round of applause!"

Without looking behind her, she bolted for the door, screaming from terror, adrenaline and the exhilaration of false hope. As she ran at the door and held out her hands for the handle, something metal caught her eye. It was above the doorknob. Her breath caught in her throat, and the Joker could hear her gasp over his clapping.

"Oh, no! It's the last obstacle!" He was halfway down the stairs, still clapping at her in a slow, mocking cadence as the taunts ensued. "Can she do it? Can she make it outside? Let's watch and see!"

Lois' eyes fully dilated with fear, as her gaze traveled upward. And upward. She processed what she was looking at. "No!" Her eyes traveled downward, and she saw even more. She screamed in frustration and terror, slapping her open palms on the door. _"No!"_

The Joker stopped on the third step from the bottom, and placed his hands on the side of his face. "Oh, no! She's run into a problem, boys and girls…"

Lois began to hyperventilate. The entire length of the door was covered with locks of different types.

Some were deadbolts, some were chains. One appeared to be a padlock, and still another a bicycle chain lock, requiring a combination of 4 numbers aligned. At a glance, she estimated there were at least twenty up and down the door. She frantically started clawing at them from the top, working her way downward. Her concentration was disturbed by the taunting voice behind her.

"Can Lois Lane figure out _which nine_ of the thirty-two locks are actually locked? Or will she accidentally lock herself _in_ as she works to get herself _out?_ " He reached the bottom of the stairs and stopped. Barker came up from the basement and peered around the door in his clown mask to see what the ruckus was about.

The Joker continued: "Maybe she just needs a _cheering_ section to help her along." He looked back over his shoulder and saw Barker. "C'mon, little pal, cheer along with me." Barker nodded enthusiastically, and ran to Mr. Joker's side.

The Joker looked back at Lois. "Like this: Lo— " (clap) " _—is!"_ (clap) "Lo— _is!_ Lo— _is!"_ Both the Joker and Barker clapped slowly together with each syllable. Barker spoke up, and they chanted in unison:

"Lo— _is!_ Lo— _is!"_

The taunting cheers flustered her even more. She couldn't tell which locks were locked, and which ones she had opened. The chanting behind her distracted her and she lost count. _Oh my God! How many is that? Have I opened three or four yet?_

The cheering picked up speed, and the Joker's clapping got louder. "Lo— _is!_ Lo— _is!"_ He was slowly approaching her from behind. Both of them were.

"Lo— _is!_ Lo— _is!"_

She bent down and fumbled along the doorframe's edge below the door handle, frantically sliding every bolt back and forth to determine if it were already open or not.

"Lo— " (clap) " _—is!"_ (clap)

_Damn it, was that six? How many more to go?_

"Lo— _is!_ Lo— _is!"_

Lois started to cry and she pounded on the door with her fists. "Let me _out!"_

Both men were only a few feet behind her, their voices crescendoing with their accelerated clapping. "Lo— _IS!_ Lo— _IS!_ "

Lois put both hands on the door handle and yanked with as much strength as she could find. Her head snapped back and forth with each exerted effort. _"No!"_

"LO— _IS!_ LO— _IS!_ LO— _IS!_ LO— _IS!_ LO— _IS!_ LO— _IS!_ "

It wasn't fair. Lois couldn't believe the irony that her freedom was on the other side of this door, but out of her grasp because she was couldn't find the right locks to open.

"LO— ** _IS_** _!_ LO— ** _IS_** _!"_

She put her hands over her ears and screamed, to drown out the shrieking voices and infernal clapping. She sobbed and started to collapse, but the Joker was immediately upon her, catching her from behind and keeping her upright. He wrapped his arms around her as her head tilted back to rest on his shoulder. He walked her forward and sandwiched her face-first between the door and himself.

He looked over at Barker. "Well done, Barkerrrr." (smack) "Now, back to the hole."

"Yes, Mr. Joker!" Barker scurried back down to the computers and surveillance cameras in the basement, beside himself with delight that he got to participate in a game with the man whose very footsteps he worshipped.

The Joker let out a long sigh, and rested his chin on Lois' shoulder from behind. "So _close_ , Lois. _Soooooo_ close, but it wasn't enough." She could tell by the tone of his voice that he was smiling. "Nice try, though. Props for the effort." He took her by the shoulders and turned her around to face him. He was shaking his head. "You know what?" He rolled his eyes up and to the side. "I lied. There weren't nine locks fastened on this door." He shook his head like a child.

Lois rested the back of her head on the door in defeat.

The Joker briefly looked down at his feet sheepishly, then looked back up at her, tilting his head slightly. "Nope. Only _one_ of them was locked. That's all I use. Just one of 'em. Hmmm… that's really _sad_ for you, isn't it, Sweet Tart? Only _one_ lock standing between you and freedom… and you didn't find it. You almost made it out, Lois." His eyes darkened as his smile grew. " _Almost._ "

Lois' bottom lip started to quiver.

"Ahhh, now. Shush shush shush. Let's go, Lois. Back. Upstairs. C'mon."

Lois was barely aware of his leading her by the arm back to the staircase. "Up. Here we go, back. Up." Lois' mind was reeling. _Was there really only one lock closed? One? Or maybe nine, like he said the first time?_ It couldn't be that simple. Nothing with him was. Had her freedom from this night of hell only been one lock away? She was so distracted turning over the possibilities and unthinkable irony in her mind that she didn't even remember climbing the staircase. Before she realized it, they were walking toward the televisions, as he steered her toward the sofa.

_No._

Lois had gotten too close to her own escape to give up now. She wrested herself from his grip and turned on him. "I hate you."

"That's a mean thing to say, Lois."

"You can't keep me here!"

He shrugged his shoulders. "I just _gave_ you the opportunity to leave… and you _blew it._ Don't be angry with me for that. Everyone else who gets brought in here doesn't even—"

He didn't get the chance to finish his sentence. Lois interrupted him by slapping him across the face with a resounding smack. He cleared his throat, smirked, and looked at her out of the corner of his eyes.

A hint of a danger played on his face. "You want a fight? Is that was this is all about?"

Hatred burned in her eyes. He had his answer.

_Good._

The Joker cocked his head and regarded her. He was feeling particularly... playful. "I'm _always_ up for a fight, Queen of Tartsssss." He pushed the sleeves of the black shirt up to his elbows. "But I don't really care to fight _girls…_ because I'm a, ah, heh, a jen-tullll-maaannnn."

Lois balled her left fist and punched him in the shoulder. He looked down at the point of impact with amusement. "Um… what was that?"

"You son of a bitch!" She slapped him again across the face.

This made him smile even broader. "See, this is why I don't fight _girls,_ Lois. There's no challenge in it. And you're _just_ … a _girl."_ He knew that would get under her skin.

She took the bait. "You bastard!" She threw another left and connected with his sternum, hard enough to make a hollow thwacking noise.

He tipped his chin down and hitched the right side of his face up in a grin. "Girls. Can't. Fight." He ran his tongue along his bottom lip suggestively. "You're gonna have to do a lot better than that, Lois."

She swung her left leg around, aiming for the side of his knee. He blocked it with ease, but didn't counter. "Is that the best you can do? C'mon, right here." He motioned to his chin. "In the face."

Lois gritted her teeth and swung, connecting her fist with his jaw. It was a solid hit, but she lacked the strength to do harm. He egged her on further. "Again. Let's go, c'mon. Hit me again."

She tried with her right fist, punching him in the chest. He stood in place, and didn't attempt to thwart the hit. He took it, and looked at her. " _Again._ "

Lois threw a left-right combo, a hook and a jab to his midsection. She saw him buckle slightly from the impact. But he made no show of pain. "C'mon, Lois. You can do it harder than that. Hit me." He took a step toward her, but kept his arms down at his sides.

She balanced on her left foot and threw a right roundhouse kick to his side. She connected hard, and she was able to move him from his stance, but he was back in his position immediately.

"Hit me."

She slapped him with her right hand, palm open. The sound of the smack filled the room.

"Hit. Meeeeee."

With a cry of frustration, she twisted her body for the wind up, and backhanded him across the face with her left hand. Some of the remaining white greasepaint came off on her knuckles.

"I said, ' _Hit._ Me.'"

She reached out with a clawed hand and scratched him along the side of the neck, hard enough to draw blood from one of her fingers' swipes.

The Joker let out a sound of exhilaration, and his eyelids momentarily flickered. " _That's_ it. Make it _hurt!"_

She punched him again, this time in the face. His head snapped back, then he met her eyes.

"Hit me!"

She stepped forward and with closed fists beat on his chest. He watched her intensely, with his arms at his sides. "Harder!"

Lois was tiring quickly. She didn't have the upper body strength to do damage with her fists, so she resorted to using her nails again. She struck him with another slap, then dragged her nails down the other side of his neck, down to the collar of the black crew neck. Droplets of blood pooled along the wake of the raised flesh.

The Joker drew his breath in sharply between his teeth. "That's it." His breath quickened with excitement, and he grabbed her by the upper arm. Lois tensed and braced herself for a retaliatory hit, but instead saw him reach for something in the couch. He pulled out a gun, and pointed the barrel at her.

Lois flinched, but he drew her in closer. "It's not loaded. Grab it!"

With confusion written on her face, Lois took hold of the barrel of the gun and watched as the Joker took a small step away from her, motioning to himself with his hands. "C'mon. Do it. Hit me."

Lois faltered for a moment. The Joker was instructing her to pistol whip him.

"Hit me, Lois."

 _Oh, that would be my pleasure, you sick son of a bitch._ She arced her arm and brought the butt of the pistol down on his ribs above his heart. He took the hit and didn't flinch.

"Hit me!"

She brought the gun down again, this time on top of his right shoulder. He advanced on her, closing the distance, without any movement to defend himself.

" _Hit me!"_

She swung and connected with the side of his face, splitting the skin open along his cheekbone. The cut wasn't deep, but it bled. To her horror, the Joker started to bob and weave, dancing on his feet like a boxer, yet keeping his arms to his sides. He came forward at her, and she found herself backing up.

"Again! Hit me!"

She brought the gun across high, and connected with his forehead. It didn't draw blood, but it snapped his head to the side.

He advanced into her space menacingly.

"HIT ME!"

Lois stepped forward, grabbed the collar of his shirt and repeatedly swung at his face with the gun. She connected again and again and again. On the side of the head. At his neck. At his jaw. On his lips, drawing blood.

Throughout the rain of blows, the Joker laughed.

Lois screamed in frustration. " _What's wrong with you? You're sick!"_ Lois continued hitting him until she exhausted herself. Her arms fell to her sides, and the gun clattered to the floor.

The Joker smiled, and stepped close enough so that his face was inches from hers. "Is that all ya got, baby?"

" _Shut up_!" She lunged at him and dug her nails into his shoulders, latching on like a cat. Lois screamed as she ripped her hold down over his deltoids, clawing him through the shirt. Her balance left her and she pitched forward into him. He quickly enclosed her in a vice grip, bouncing up and down with energy as he did so.

"Ohhhh, I _liked_ that, Lois! I _liked_ that! _"_

She had no energy left to pull herself away. Her knees buckled, he loosened his grip and she dropped to the floor. The Joker stood over her, shifting his weight back and forth. "No more? Aw, c'mon, Sweet Tart," (smack) "I was just getting warmed up!"

Lois looked up at him in defeat, and raised her hands to cover her face, as she tried to catch her breath. She felt him take her wrists in his hands, and he dragged her across the room. He pulled her into a sitting position, then kneeled down and hoisted her up. Her field of vision spun as he tipped her over his right shoulder, and stood up, carrying her like a sack of potatoes. His shoulder dug painfully into her stomach.

"You just need some rest. Here," he walked to the front of the couch, "watch some teeee veeee." He indelicately dropped her onto the couch, grabbed the remote, and positioned himself right next to her on her right side. "I want to show you something, Lois."

He put his arm around her shoulders, gripping her chin and pointing it at the televisions. "Don't look away, Sweet Tart-ah. You really need to see this."

He extended his arm, and muted the smaller television. A recorded show started up on the bigger screen. Lois immediately recognized the introduction music and stiffened.

The Joker was making her watch _Metropolis Live._

He spun on her. "You want to _know_ what you've unleashed, Lois? You want to see exactly how much _pain_ and _destruction_ is happening in Gotham because of you? You want to see what happens when a _disposable_ television anchor – and you _are_ disposable, Lois – when she chooses to trivialize who _I_ am for cheap entertainment of the masses?"

He turned up the volume as his eyes burned into her. With stealth, he reached back to the pocket of the kid's jeans he wore, assuring himself that the small plastic bag was still there. It was, and he was eager to test the inhumane conditioning that Dr. Crane had told him about.

Finally, his plans were coming to fruition. He was about to create another monster, broken in mind, body and spirit: what he had set in motion with Harvey Dent, he would complete with Lois Lane.

________________________________

. . . . . . .

Author's Notes for "Almost"

. . . . . . .

_Steven, the caulrophobe, made a brief appearance in Chapter 18. I had to mention him here again for kicks._

_Unfortunately, the inspiration for the scene where Lois' escape is thwarted by the numerous locks on the door is based on reality: serial murderer and cannibal Jeffrey Dahmer used the technique to trap his victims in his apartment. The most jarring interview I've ever seen on television was when Geraldo Rivera interviewed Dahmer's last victim, Tracy Edwards, in 1991: Dahmer kept 17 locks on his door. After entering Dahmer's apartment, Tracy said he heard 4 locks fasten, and he turned to see Dahmer come at him. He never saw which locks Dahmer fastened. After breaking free of Dahmer's hold, he ran for the door and said that he felt a divine intervention guide his hand to 4 of the 17 locks. Miraculously, he found the 4 locks that were fastened, opened the door, and escaped. He went to the police and Dahmer was finally apprehended. The horrific details of his encounter are available on Wikipedia. Look up Jeffrey Dahmer, if you're interested, one of the most vile and evil serial killers in the history of the US. He actually makes the Joker look like a choirboy._

_To this day, that story turns my blood cold._

_-4ofCups, 2009.07.05_

 


	42. The Lesson:  Sanity Cracked

*** THE LESSON: SANITY CRACKED ***

**Chapter 42**

**. . . . . . .**

The League of Shadows had approached Dr. Jonathan Crane when he was attending a symposium in Beijing. The colloquium presented the channels for psychiatrists to share their casework with experimental pharmaceuticals, along with the less traditional methods of behavior modification designed for treating the most intractable of patients with long-standing psychoses.

Arkham Asylum had not sent Dr. Crane as a representative of their case work. To the contrary, he was attending on his private time, having told his administrative staff that he was taking a personal holiday. Had Arkham known he was attending, they would have expected a full report, replete with the names of attending physicians and the methods covered at the symposium by his field's colleagues from other countries.

That just wouldn't do.

What he was interested in wasn't the type of illumination that would be looked upon favorably, by modern medicine's standards.

Dr. Crane had attended the conference with an ulterior motive, to which no one was privy. He wasn't particularly interested in modifying behavior on an individual case-by-case basis. It was the concept of behavior modification en masse that held infinitely more appeal for him.

He had turned down invitations to similar symposiums in Switzerland, Finland and Australia. When he learned of the conference being hosted in China, he knew that there would be… opportunities to learn that weren't sanctioned in countries that practiced the Westernized approach to medicine.

Western medicine tended to frown on methods that were inhumane.

It was at this conference that he found an ally in a representative of the League of Shadows. After treading lightly with his words and keeping himself guarded, he deduced that they had actually sought _him_ out. His reputation preceded him, and Dr. Crane was darkly delighted to have found an organization that was willing to foster his research into group behavior modification. They also offered to introduce him to an organic herbal found only in a remote area of the country that monks had found to have potent effects.

Thus an alliance was born.

The limbic system, controlling basic emotions like fear, could only be tapped into with the use of herbals or pharmaceuticals, as it is housed in the inner cortex and inaccessible with any type of physical tool. Therefore, the League needed a doctor as their ally, someone whose access to drugs wouldn't be questioned. An accord was struck, in which Dr. Crane had agreed to test the herbal supplied by the League of Shadows on his seemingly endless supply of guinea pigs in Arkham. As an esteemed doctor, with the licensed access to drugs not afforded to those outside of the medical community, Dr. Crane had the ideal resources, and the perfect cover.

While the League had a vision of mass behavior modification experiments, they also had kept their skills sharp with individual case studies. There are other parts of the body—not protected by thick tissue or bone—which could also be tapped with similar results, without the need for any pharmaceuticals. The League shared with Dr. Crane some lesser-known techniques for radical behavior modification that required no form of medication.

Some might call the techniques torture.

The League thought of them as efficient methods for subduing opponents for the long term. For the length of the time the behavior remained modified, the time investment of a few hours was relatively short.

When the Joker had made his way into Dr. Crane's cell, this was what he wanted to learn. He wasn't interested in drugs. He was interested in tools.

Dr. Crane really didn't care what the Joker was going to use the technique for, or whom he intended to test it on.

Rendered impotent within the very institution he once ran, Dr. Crane was delighted to be able to pass along what he knew, even if it would damage only one person beyond repair. He knew that, with the right treatment, he alone might be capable of undoing the conditioning. However, he had no intention of doing so.

People with broken psyches were infinitely more entertaining to observe as they self-destructed, than ones who were whole again.

________________________________

The Joker's grin held black intentions as he looked at her. _This is it, Loisssss. Are you ready?_

_I know that I am._

In the dimly lit room, Lois tilted her head down, to avert her eyes from the television. The Joker caught the motion immediately. "Nooooooooooo," he roughly grabbed her chin and lifted her face, squaring it to the screen before them, "you are going to _watch_ this, Lois Lane."

 _I can't take this anymore. I can't take these insidious games of his._ It was all she could do to form coherent thoughts. She was breaking down. And she knew it.

"I, ah, I took the liberty of recording the newest episode of _Metropolis Live_ a few hours ago," (smack) "so you wouldn't miss it."

Lois reeled when she saw bold font fill the screen after the standard introduction: SPECIAL EDITION: THE JOKER'S REIGN OF TERROR. The Joker smiled at seeing his name on the screen, and leaned over to Lois. "'Reign of Terror' sure is a one-eighty from the broadcast _you_ anchored on Wednesday night, isn't it?" He squeezed her shoulder in an affectionate gesture. "Funny how so much can _change_ in just twenty-four hours, hmmmmm?"

Lois' eyes glazed over momentarily. _This can't be happening. All of this has to be a nightmare. Why can't I wake up?_ She shuddered, as the memory of her cousin flooded back, when he held her head under water and she nearly drowned. Another flash surfaced, when the Joker had struck her with her own belt at the beginning of the night. Both seemed to have just happened. What was happening to her perception of time? Why were these awful memories exploding before her eyes?

The face of ex-adult film star Tatjana Rose appeared, sitting behind the journalist's desk as the _Metropolis Live_ broadcast began. Lois wrinkled her brow in confusion. _Tatjana? Where's Deirdre? Or Tanner?_ Lois was unaware that the regular anchor and her successive back up guest anchor had refused association with the broadcast, for fear of the Joker's retaliatory actions. Tatjana would never have been producer Cheryl Lazlow's first pick to anchor a show of this magnitude, unless something extraordinary had happened.

But something extraordinary _had_ happened. Lois was sitting right next to him.

"Good evening, and welcome to this special broadcast of _Metropolis Live,_ the only entertainment news show bringing you live coverage of the shocking events unfolding right now in our sister city of Gotham." Tatjana was definitely an amateur, and her voice was shaky, but she soon steadied herself. "Last night, _Metropolis Live_ focused on a fearsome Gotham-based criminal known as 'the Joker', and his surge in popularity as a pop culture icon here in Metropolis. In what police believe to be a retaliatory action against that broadcast, the Joker has gone on a rampage in the city of Gotham, and apparently kidnapped the woman who anchored the show, our very own Lois Lane."

Lois drew her breath in sharply at hearing her own name. It hit home. _This is real._ _All of this is really happening. Oh, dear God._

Tatjana cooed into the camera with a come-hither look she had made her craft in her former career. "Tonight, the city of Gotham burns, as numerous bombs have been detonated in random locations all over the city, plunging the city into unthinkable terror." A hit of a smile played on her face, just before the video feed switched to sky footage shot from a helicopter, showing orange conflagrations contrasting against the blackness of the city below.

Lois found herself embarrassed to watch such blatant sexual teasing being used as the hook for viewership. As if reading her mind, the Joker casually spoke up. "Doesn't she just look cheap-ah? I mean, allowing herself to be used like a common whore by the producers for ratings?" He tsked and shook his head, looking down at Lois. "Just like how _you_ look. Every time. _You_ host that broadcast."

 _No, he's wrong._ Lois couldn't take her eyes off of the television. Her voice was small. "I don't look like that." _I don't look that cheap. Do I?_ It was one thing to watch snippets of the finished project in the editing room; quite another to watch the show on television during the scheduled broadcast time slot. Lois knew her looks were part of her draw, but she didn't think they had been played up so obviously.

"Uh, yeah. Yeah, you do, Lois. You look like a commercialized prostitute. Why do you think I've been calling you 'tart' all night long?"

Lois drew her shoulders in, feeling shame for any association that someone could draw between her and such pedestrian sexual pandering. _But I don't act like that. I don't read my lines salaciously like that. I would never speak of tragedy with the levity of a gossip column like Tatjana is doing._

The anchor continued her narration: "We're bringing you some of the scenes that are playing out right now, caught on camera by Gotham Cable News and our Gotham-affiliated nationally broadcast stations. Police believe the string of violence began this evening when a bomb was detonated on a bus at a retirement home…" Tatjana's voice faded into the background as Lois watched in horror as scene after scene after scene of burning buildings, gutted cars and a multi-car pile up filled the screen.

_No. Oh, God, this can't be happening because of me. All these people can't be suffering because of me._

The Joker frowned. "This would be more fun if we had popcorn to eat while we watch it."

Lois didn't even catch that he was making light of the situation. She felt absolutely sick with remorse.

"… and some of the drivers stranded in the gridlock on the Gotham Expressway were witnesses to a brutal slaying of emergency care workers—"

"Ooh! GCN is interviewing one of them on the other station!" The Joker paused _Metropolis Live_ and cranked up the volume of the other television.

"—saying you actually saw what happened?" The news anchor tilted his microphone toward the face of a middle-aged man who looked shaken and wired with adrenaline.

"Yeah! Me and about twenty of us, we seen it! There was a guy on the bridge up there—" he extended his arm, and the camera panned up to focus on a pedestrian bridge, "and he just opened fire. He had a machine gun or something. He starts firing on the ambulances back at the tollbooths. There's glass breaking and it's real loud!" The camera swung back to the tollbooths, where the pulverized remains of numerous vehicles sharpened into focus. Lois drew in her breath when the resolution revealed that the head of one of the ambulance drivers had practically exploded.

"And sir, you said that you heard gunfire as well."

The camera swung back to reveal a twenty-something man in a Detroit Red Wings baseball cap standing next to the middle-aged man. "Yeah! Only what I heard came from the side of the road. I think there were at least two of 'em. I hear gunfire, lots of it, coming from my right, and I looked over and saw, like, little explosions? They were bullets coming out of a machine gun. We all jus', you know, hit the pavement as soon as we could. I got back in my car. I don't think any of the cars got hit. They seemed to be shooting at the ambulances. And at the fire truck."

"Thank you, both, for sharing your eye witness accounts with us. We know this must have been a very frightening encounter for both of you." The reporter squared himself to the camera. "We're live near the tollbooths on the Gotham Expressway, about a mile north of the Winter Hill Overpass, which was the scene of a horrific multi-car pile up earlier this evening. The ambulances and fire truck behind me were trying to get to the scene of that accident, to offer aid desperately needed to the injured, where we are getting reports of at least two hundred forty dead. That number is not yet confirmed, and could likely go up as the evening goes on. Eleven ambulances in total behind me were assaulted with high magnitude gunfire, as well as a fire truck. All emergency personnel inside are believed to be dead. This is simply a nightmare that just doesn't seem to end."

The GCN station anchor appeared on camera momentarily. "James, what is this going to mean for the people still trapped in the pile up?"

Lois started to chant to herself. _This isn't my fault. This isn't my fault._ Another memory surfaced: the image of Lex Luthor shooting daggers at her from his eyes as she watched the media descend on him in the wake of her expose on LexCorp. She brought her hands up to her head. _Why can't I make these images stop?_

James shook his head. "Gene, This is about the worst situation possible. We have tried to reach the head of Gotham's Emergency Services Dispatch Unit, but we can't get anyone to speak to us or go on record. We have no idea when more ambulances will be sent to the accident site. People who are in dire need of expert emergency care aren't going to get it, and we can only hope that those who are still ambulatory near the accident are doing what they can to find victims who are still alive and in need of treat—"

The sound of an explosion sounded off camera. The camera operator swung the camera down the expressway, showing a growing fire burning in the distance. James continued, "Oh, no! Oh, Gene, this is exactly what we feared. Several of the cars in that pile up are on fire, and the fire appears to be spreading to the other vehicles. That is the fourth explosion we've heard in the last twenty minutes. It's a perfect disaster in the making: countless cars piled on top of each other, the gas tanks igniting from the spreading fire… the fire truck behind me was trying to reach some of those vehicles for rescue purposes, and now, no professional rescue seems to be coming any time in the immediate future."

Lois shook her head. _This isn't my fault._

The anchor looked haggard. "James, can anything be done from the sides of the Gotham Expressway at the site of the accident?"

"No, Gene. We believe that the Winter Hill Overpass was targeted for a very specific reason—"

The Joker emitted a low, rumbling laugh. "It. Sure. Was."

Lois spoke up, keeping her eyes on the television. "This isn't my fault." Her voice was timid.

The Joker regarded her with amusement, and took her chin in his hand. He yanked on it playfully. "Are you sure about that?"

"—accident started in those southbound lanes. There is a park along the northbound side of the expressway near that overpass, with pedestrian trails and no access road. Along the side of the southbound side of the expressway is what remains of the abandoned construction site intended for high-rise condominium towers. As you may recall, Arrowhead Properties declared Chapter Eleven over eighteen months ago, and all projects were indefinitely suspended. As a result, water and electricity had been shut off and rerouted from this side of the city block months ago. This abandoned construction site is next to heart of the vehicle pile up, but there are no fire hydrants for Gotham's fire department to tap into for nearly a half-mile stretch in either direction. Even if there were hydrants, there would be no water to access.

"As you heard earlier, we spoke to some of the passengers further down the road, between the tollbooths and the heart of the crash, who were in the fringe of that pile up. There were several witnesses to a large object falling off the side of the Winter Hill Overpass, into traffic below—"

"Mooooneeeeeeey," the Joker drew out the name of the corpse with fiendish glee. He looked askance at Lois. "Remember that, ah, that human pillow you woke up on this evening?"

Lois blinked. Everything was a blur. There was a corpse with a gaping head wound between the eyes. But Curtis also was a corpse now, too, wasn't he? Also with a gaping head wound. Her head swam, as horrific images bled together in her mind.

He nudged her. "'member him? Well, he went from being a human pillow to a human speed bump." The Joker laughed at the image in his head.

Words came to her slowly. "That man… you threw him off a bridge?"

"No. Wallace and Jones threw him off a bridge. I stayed here with you to play the role of charming host." He made a mocking expression of disappointment. "And not once did you compliment me on the fondue and petit fours I slaved over."

 _What? Was there fondue?_ Lois couldn't remember. She remembered crackers. And pizza. There had been cuts. And punches. And pain. And more pain. Was it in the past? Did it just happen? Her mind was pulling apart, disassociating with reality.

"—correct, Gene. It's looking more and more like whatever the object was that was dropped from the overpass, it was done so intentionally. The overpass towers six stories over the Gotham Expressway, creating the greatest distance between any overpass and the expressway in Gotham. As you may recall, this stretch of the expressway used to be in a tunnel, which is why it sits three stories below ground level. The tunnel was dismantled years ago as Gotham's downtown sprawled, but the street itself was never built up any higher. The vast drop off from street level also cripples any would-be rescue attempts."

"James, do we know what the object was that started the pile up?"

"At this point, we have no confirmation as to what that object actually was. Witnesses say they saw a large object fall from the overpass and land on a car. That's how the accident in the southbound lanes started. As you can imagine, any sizeable object would pick up considerable speed after falling six stories. Some say it looked like a rug. Others think perhaps it was a large sack of garbage. The people who were able to talk to us were too far away from the accident to see what it was with clarity. One witness thinks it may have been a body, Gene.

"Additionally, a few witnesses reported that, shortly after the pile up on the southbound side, another object fell into the northbound lanes of traffic. Many reported that it looked like a sheet, or some sort of tarp. That was what started the accident in the north-bound lanes.

"Whatever it was, it appears that the Winter Hill Overpass was targeted specifically because there are no on or off-ramps for at least two miles in either direction, and no side access for emergency services to reach any would-be victims. The fact that the emergency crew was, well, gunned down in cold blood for attempting to help the accident victims, points to this being a carefully choreographed attack, designed to result in the greatest number of casualties possible. And those numbers continue to mount."

Gene furrowed his brow on camera. "So this looks like it was the work of the Joker."

James shrugged his shoulders. "We haven't found any connection yet that would tie this accident to the Joker directly. However, it can't be coincidence that this accident happened two hours after a video was sent to media outlets by the Joker, in which he threatened the city of Gotham with explosives set up in random locations. All traffic arteries out of the city were clogged as people made a mad dash to leave Gotham. It appears that, if this is the work of the Joker, he orchestrated the attack so that maximum damage could be inflicted, when as many people as possible would be caught on the roads without escape." James nodded somberly. "Back to you, Gene."

The Joker sat up straight, nudging Lois. "Good timing, huh? I'm smart like that," he said with a self-congratulatory smile.

Gene nodded in kind. "Thank you. That was James Emerick, coming to us live from the Gotham Expressway tollbooths, just north of the Winter Hill Overpass, site of the worst multi-car pile up in Gotham's history. As you just heard James mention, traffic has been congested on all major routes out of Gotham for the last four hours, when this station's broadcast feed was temporarily hijacked and a video made by the Joker was played on a loop. In that video, the Joker made reference to a bus blowing up at a retirement home, which we later verified _did_ happen, killing some of our reporters and crew, who were there covering a human interest story. Our hearts and prayers go out to their families tonight."

Gene turned to his left, and the camera panned back to reveal another anchor sitting at the desk with him. "Cliff, would it be a safe assumption that the Joker is responsible for that bus explosion tonight?"

A steel-faced man nodded. "Yes, it's safe to deduce that the Joker was claiming responsibility for that explosion. Not only did he reference that attack in his video, several of his trademark joker playing cards were found at the scene of the charred remains. We also have reports of a bomb going off in a parking garage, a Laundromat, several townhouse communities… there was a day care center that was hit—"

"The facility for autistic children?" Gene clarified.

Cliff nodded. "Correct. We've also received phone calls from viewers reporting that a McDonald's restaurant was hit, a movie theater, a low-income government housing facility… the list just goes on and on, Gene. And yet _another_ violent and bizarre scene unfolded on Gotham's subway tonight. Parts of a dismembered man were found in some of the subway cars—"

The Joker snickered. "Stickssssssssssssss." He shook his head. "Punk ass kid called me 'dude'. That's not my name-ah."

Lois turned her face to the Joker and stared, mouth agape. Whoever Sticks had been, it sounded like he had been part of the Joker's crew. _He's willing to kill the very men who work for him, who_ devote _themselves to him. My God, what is he going to do to me by the end of this night?_

"—and the bus drove up on the curb and struck a large group of pedestrians. A few witnesses across the street from the bus stop reported seeing a large object thrown at the windshield of the bus as it came down the street. This lead to the bus accident, in which the driver and several passengers were killed, and many bystanders were crushed. Police at the accident scene found the torso of a man on the street, with the right arm still attached. The man's head, left arm, legs and feet were left at different points along the North-South line."

Lois began to rock like a terrified child in her seat on the couch. The Joker was not only killing his own men, he was _dismembering_ them. She was beginning to believe that there was nothing he wasn't capable of.

Gene shook his head in disgust. "Truly one of the more horrific stories we've heard, even on this, a night that is seeing unprecedented attacks on Gotham at the hands of the Joker. Is there anything that we can do to keep ourselves safe?"

"I recommend that everyone watching this broadcast stays inside and does not attempt to leave the city. You'll be putting yourself in more danger than if you lock your doors."

"What about the Gotham Police, Cliff? Is there any hope that they can stem the flow of bloodshed?"

"Gene, we saw both Mayor Garcia and Police Commissioner Gordon address us in a live news conference earlier. In my opinion, both men looked defeated. They know that there is very little anyone can do to stop the Joker."

"What about the Batman?" The Joker caught his breath and leaned forward, turning up the volume. "Cliff, is it possible that the city of Gotham could expect any assistance from the Caped Crusader himself?"

Cliff shook his head vehemently. "I think we would have seen something by now. For all we know, he could be working in collaboration with the Joker."

The Joker bounced up and down on the couch like an excited schoolboy. "Ha HA! Wouldn't _that_ just make my day?"

Gene countered, "But wasn't it the Batman himself who helped to apprehend the Joker at the Pruit Building last year, thwarting the Joker's attempt to blow up the two ferries _Liberty_ and _Spirit?"_

"Yes, but he was also responsible for the murders of five people, two of them officers. We can't accept help from a vigilante who answers to his own rules instead of society's. In my opinion, he's just as dangerous as the Joker."

"Ba _t._ Man-ah." The Joker's eyes darkened and the corners of his mouth drew downward.

Gene leaned forward onto the anchor desk and rested his weight on his forearms. "I realize that this is a moot point now, but how bad would our situation be if Gotham's District Attorney Harvey Dent were still alive?"

The Joker stiffened. He squeezed his arm around Lois tightly, as he increased the volume. He spat his order at her: "Listen up, Sweet Tart-ah!"

"Gene, we'll never know for certain, but I believe that Dent would have ensured that the Joker ended up in a more secure institution than Arkham. He never would have escaped and we wouldn't be witnessing the horror we're seeing tonight."

Gene nodded. "Harvey Dent. Now _he_ was Gotham's true hero. He fought tirelessly against Gotham's criminals, but stayed inside the bounds of the law as he did so—"

" _HA!"_ The Joker shouted at the television. Lois jumped from the outburst.

"—Dent was a man of character. A man of principles."

Cliff nodded. "That he was, Gene. For all the corruption and crime that mires this city, Harvey Dent was a champion of justice."

Gene addressed the camera again: "Truer words were never spoken. Harvey Dent was a light in the darkness that often overshadows Gotham. Our city is held up as the paragon of corruption strangling the hope out of its citizens; ours is a city that the rest of the country sees as jaded and apathetic. They believe our city is not governed by its elected officials, but by an omnipotent criminal underworld that grows. He fought against that. I tell you this, Gotham: Harvey Dent was the example that we all should be following. He embodied the best this city had to offer—"

The image on screen froze. With his arm extended, the Joker had paused the recording.

The Joker let his head fall backward and he exhaled loudly. It waxed into a low rumble of laughter, and then it grew. His shoulders started to shake as the laughter picked up volume and vigor. He tipped his head forward again to face the screen. In the upper right hand corner of the picture, a still shot of Harvey Dent appeared. Creases of laughter lined his eyes, echoing the broad smile on his handsome face. He was dressed in a suit, the photo having been taken on the steps outside of the downtown courthouse after a successful prosecution.

Harvey Dent's legacy was the only dream that kept Gotham going. He was every inch a prince.

A white knight.

A lie.

The Joker leaned his face forward and rested his forehead against Lois' right temple. "Loissssss? I want you to hear that _again-ah!"_

He backed up the video, the men gesticulating in a comically fast motion briefly until he released the remote's button.

"—so. I tell you this, Gotham: Harvey Dent was the example that we all should be following. He embodied the best this city had to offer—"

The Joker licked his lips slowly and considered Lois' face. " _Again."_

Lois grew uneasy as he rewound the footage for the second time. What was he getting at?

"—vey Dent was the example that we all should be following. He embodied the best this city had—"

The video scrolled backwards again.

"—was the example that we all should be following. He embodied the best this city—"

With agile fingers, the Joker played with the remote button again.

"—Gotham: Harvey Dent was the example that we all should be following. He embodied the best—"

The Joker hissed into Lois' ear: "Are you _learrrrrrrning,_ Loissssss?"

Lois sat mute, letting the broadcast sound fill her ears, as the Joker repeatedly rewound the footage.

Seemingly incessantly.

"—criminal underworld that grows. That isn't so. I tell you this, Gotham: Harvey Dent was the example—"

Rewind.

"—tell you this, Gotham: Harvey Dent was—"

Rewind.

"—tham: Harvey Dent w—"

Rewind.

"—vey Dent—"

Rewind.

"—Harvey Dent—"

Rewind.

"—we all should be following. He embodied the best—"

Rewind.

"—Harvey Dent—"

Rewind.

"—be following. He embodied the best—"

Rewind.

"—Dent was the example—"

Rewind.

"—Harvey Dent—"

Rewind.

"—Harvey Dent—"

Lois closed her eyes. This felt like madness. She felt the Joker's head nod as he leaned up against her. "Say it, Lois."

She slowly opened her eyes. The screen in front of her was a blur, her eyes watering from lack of sleep. "Say it?"

"Say his name, Lois. Say, 'Harvey Dent'."

Lois swallowed. "Harvey Dent."

"Good. Do you see what they've done to him?" He turned his face back to the screen and pointed. "Gotham has pinned all of its hopes and aspirations on a _dead_ man. That's how pathetic this city is. The only thing they have to cling to, the only remnant of something wholesome and positive, is that man's _memory._ That is ALL this city has left to believe in, Lois."

She repeated herself. "Harvey Dent."

His smile was dark. "Yes. Say it. Say, 'Gotham's only hope is the memory of Harvey Dent.' Say it, Lois."

Her eyes drifted. "Gotham's only hope is Harvey Dent."

"No, _the memory_ of Harvey Dent."

She nodded. "The memory of Harvey Dent."

His voice dropped. "Say it again."

"Gotham's only hope…" she momentarily faltered, "… is the memory of Harvey Dent."

"Good. Again."

She looked at his photo on the screen "Gotham's only hope is the memory of Harvey Dent."

"What is Gotham's only hope, Lois?"

She didn't need to think before responding: "The memory of Harvey Dent."

He narrowed his eyes at her. "Is the Batman Gotham's only hope?"

"No."

"What is?"

"The memory of Harvey Dent."

"Whose only hope?"

"Gotham's."

The Joker nodded his approval.

"What is the memory of Harvey Dent?"

Lois blinked robotically. "Gotham's only hope."

"What?"

"Gotham's only hope."

"Yessssss," he drew out the sibilance like a snake, "Gotham's _only_ hope."

"Gotham's _only_ hope," she repeated.

"Good. Girl. This city doesn't have the Batman anymore, Lois. The Batman no longer cares. Say it."

Lois felt so tired and heavy. "The Batman no longer cares."

"Right. Let's go back to _your_ show, shall we?" He paused the GNC broadcast, and the _Metropolis Live_ episode resumed.

Tatjana smiled invitingly into the camera, her demeanor incongruent with the gravity of the matter on which she was reporting. "Foreshadowing of the attack on Lois Lane that was yet to come was discovered on our station's website earlier this afternoon. What appeared to be the work of vandals, we now know to be the work of the Joker. Please be warned, the images you will see are graphic and quite shocking."

He clucked his tongue. "It's sup _pos_ ed to be shocking," the Joker mumbled. "We're beating _Metropolis Live_ at its own game of salacious _news_ material."

The TV screen filled up with a still shot of the website's bio page, and Lois scanned the vandalized text, horrified. At the top of the page was the following:

**_JoKEr wAnTS 2 PlaY_ **

**_StRip poKer wiTH_ **

**_ThE QUeEn oF TArtS_ **

Lower down in the screen, more randomly capitalized letters followed in a rhyme:

**_Not cLuBS, nOt DiaMoNDs,_ **

**_noT sPAdes NoR heArtS,_ **

**_JoKer's uPped the anTe_ **

**_witH the sUit oF TaRTs._ **

She didn't blink.

_Is that supposed to mean me? Is this destruction going on in Gotham supposed to be an upped 'ante' in his mind, against a perceived assault on my part? Is this all a game to him? Does he see me as some figure in a new 'suit' he's imagined, where I'm one of vapid news casters, peddling sex-imbued news for entertainment?_

When the camera panned down further, it showed the photo of Lois that had been mocked up to look like the Joker. The image of her defiled picture made her nauseous.

What had been a brief biographical snippet below her photo had been changed. Lois strained to remember why it all sounded familiar. Who had told her about this? Someone had called her from the station. Was she driving at that time? Jimmy? It had been Jimmy Olson who had warned her about the vandalism. Somehow seeing it in front of her made it even more graphic.

Then the camera panned down further on the webpage, to reveal a particularly crude portion of text. Some of the letters of the more vulgar words were blurred out, but the words themselves could easily be distinguished.

**_My name is Lois. I'm the Queen of Tarts, and I like to fuck. I'll fuck you for a story, or suck your cock to get on the air. But something's cumming my way. Joker's cumming for me and he's really going to fuck me._ **

Finally the last portion of the taunt came into view. Like the text before it, what it lacked in disjointed capitalization, it made up for in perverted imagery.

**My legs and my mouth**

**are both open wide,**

**and I'm hoping the Joker**

**cums inside with his knives.**

Lois tipped her chin down, and made concerted efforts to stifle the gags, as Curtis' tattoo came back to her. _Had he been the safer of the two monsters to be around? God help me, this can't be happening. I just want to disappear. I want to vanish into nothing._

The Joker stiffened as he cocked his head to the side, looking at the TV screen. Then he narrowed his eyes as he reread the text. Neither the profanity-laced mock bio nor the second rhyme were his handiwork…

...but it did read as if someone had gotten the idea from a tattoo.

The clown's face blackened with fury. Curtis must have gotten onto the site after Barker made the changes he requested, and added his own ad-lib, based off of his own vile tattoo on his back.

He regretted killing Curtis so quickly. He wanted to do so all over again for this insolence. Curtis ruined what was a good joke.

Tatjana continued her report: "Lois Lane was on her way to Gotham for an interview, when she vanished. Around 9:30 this evening, _Metropolis Live_ received a copy of a video shot by the Joker himself, with evidence that he did, in fact, abduct Ms. Lane himself. "

As she spoke, a short spool of video ran showing the Joker talking into the camera, with a brief flash to Lois lying on the floor, then showing the Joker licking the side of Lois' face and kissing her aggressively. The sound feed was shut off, and the spliced footage ran in slow motion repeatedly. "The video is too graphic to be shown on air, but if you're a member of the _Metropolis Live_ website with Backstage Member Access, you can see the whole video." Ever the shrewd businesswoman, Cheryl Lazlow had figured out a way to make money, as well as ratings, off of the video: it was available for viewing in its full length for anyone willing to sign up for the $29.99 annual fee.

The Joker smiled triumphantly. It didn't matter that they weren't showing the entire video on the program. They had done exactly what he knew they would do, what he _planned_ for them to do: they had chosen the most sexually suggestive shots and strung them together, fabricating an implied sexual relationship that wasn't there.

This didn't escape Lois' notice either. Her voice was soft, but she spoke up. "That's not all that happened in the video."

The scars rippled the skin of his cheeks as he drew his mouth back in a wide grin. "And Lois has her 'a-ha' moment!" He worked his tongue along the corner of his mouth. "No, it _isn't_ all that happened in the video. You're learning very _quickly,_ Sweet Tart, aren't you? The media doesn't always paint. The full. Picture, does it-ah? Just what it _wants_ you to see."

Lois was beginning to understand it now. From her current vantage point, it started to fall into place. _Oh my God. This is the lesson he's been talking about. He's showing me what we did to him… by proving that same thing could happen to me. This is humiliating to watch. What must he have felt last night watching our show about him? I didn't know how dangerous he was. I swear to God I didn't know. I never would have agreed to the broadcast if I had known what he was capable of…_

Tatjana put on her bedroom eyes. "What are the Joker's intentions for Lois? Has he already killed her? Or does he have some wicked plan for her?"

Lois' mouth dropped open. All scripts had to pass through Cheryl Lazlow before being approved to be read on air. All of them. That meant that Cheryl had approved the salacious text that Tatjana was reading.

Cheryl had approved for Lois' manipulated image to be dangled out as a draw for viewership, by playing up the sex angle. Cheryl didn't give a damn about Lois' life, but she was going to play up the sexual implications of her kidnapping and milk it for all she could get.

"Of course, all of us at _Metroplis Live_ fear for Lois Lane's life. If you have seen her, or if you have any information that could lead to her whereabouts, please call the tip line at the bottom of the screen that you see right now."

A string of still shots of Lois, press photos on file with the _Daily Planet_ , slowly appeared one after the other, as Tatjana read the well wishes and fond recollections her co-workers had shared. Lois felt as if she would hyperventilate.

The show was already writing her off as gone.

_No. No, this can't be happening!_

The Joker tilted his head as he regarded Lois. He could read her thoughts as they played out on her face, her strength to mask her emotions long having been stripped away.

"Do you see it, Loisssss?"

She stared mute as a photo appeared on screen of her standing in a crowd next to _Daily Planet_ Editor Perry White.

"Lois, you're already dead to them."

Another photo appeared of her at her desk, with Clark Kent leaning over her shoulder to point to something on her computer's monitor.

"I _told_ you, Lois. You're _disposable_ to them."

She weakly shook her head. "No, I'm not."

His voice was ice cold. "Of course you are. You're nothing more than a sexual invitation for more viewers, that's all. A piece of meat." He leaned in and lowered his voice to a whisper. "You know these ratings games better than anyone, Loisssss. The ratings will go _up_ if something _bad_ happens to you."

Her breath caught in her throat. She knew he was right.

"So tell me, Lois Lane… why on earth would they make _any_ effort to rescue you?"

Her lips trembled. She fought for something to say, but words failed her.

________________________________

The Batman moved Jones' body to the sidewalk near the entrance to the gas station, draping the man's jacket over his face and torso. There was no time to take him to a hospital, or flag down a Gotham police car. He would be a low priority in the scope of the evening's emergencies.

The Batman climbed back into his vehicle and pulled up a satellite image of the city's streets. He found the intersection of Broadland and Morrow. Jones had said left on Morrow…

He quickly felt his stomach drop. The Joker's lair was on an unnamed cross street off of Morrow, in a row house near the water. Morrow ran to the end of one of Gotham's numerous elongated man-made peninsulas into the Gotham East River; that meant that the houses on _both sides_ of Morrow faced the water.

From the intersection of Broadland, there were forty-seven cross streets bisecting Morrow. Twenty-nine of them had names, leaving eighteen streets to search; thirty-six if he treated the streets to the left of Morrow as different from the ones on the right. He didn't even know what the row house looked like.

He didn't have time to analyze the situation while remaining stationary. _Move. Now!_

He dropped the vehicle into gear and screeched out of the parking lot, taking out two newspaper stands and a bus stop bench as he did so.

________________________________

"Ah!" Bill felt triumphant. "We're getting there, Mr. Luthor. There's a password I'm working around right now. Only three more digits to go, and we'll be in business."

Lex stared icily at the man.

Bill swallowed and returned his focus to his laptop.

Lex exhaled slowly. This was costing him time, and time, in the hands of someone as unpredictable as the Joker, was a dangerous thing to let slip away.

Lex wondered whether or not he had killed Lois Lane yet. He hoped not. He had needs for her as well.

While seeing her dead would be tremendously satisfying for him, there was a different satisfaction that he was seeking.

And having a living, breathing Lois Lane to play with would make for a much easier means to his end than having a dead one.

________________________________

The Joker pressed her further.

"Why would _Metropolis Live_ willingly throw away so _enticing_ a story by trying to find you? Isn't it just….oh, _soooooo_ much more _dee-lish-usssss,"_ he mocked, "to perpetuate the idea that you're some sort of sexual pawn being held by a maniacal, twisted monster? Some damsel in distress who could be _raped—_ again, and again and _again—_ completely helpless to defend herself?"

Lois felt like crying, but she had nothing left. Her voice was barely a whisper. "But they have to be looking for me—"

"Wrong. They're _not_ looking for you, Lois. Like I already told you, you're a piece of meat to them." (smack) "You've been used and thrown away. They. Don't. _Care._ You're nothing more than a product of the institutions you work for." His breath quickened, with excitement. "Can't you see it, Lois? They've molded you into what _they_ want you to be. You're nothing more than a vessel to them. _"_

He tucked his left foot underneath him, turned toward Lois and grabbed her face in his hands, turning her to face him. "I told you, Lois. I _told_ you… that you would know what it feels like…" he licked his lips "to be a _whore._ So? How does it feel?"

 _I'm not a whore. I'm not. I'm worth saving._ Lois stammered in a child's voice: "Someone has to be looking—"

The Joker exploded, "There's _NO ONE!"_ He stood up and roughly grabbed Lois by her wrists, pulling her to her feet. "Where are they, Lois? Where are the people who are coming to save you? Hmmm? " He shook her roughly by the shoulders. "No one is coming, Lois. The Metropolis Police won't find you. The Gotham Police have got other priorities with the city burning!"

Lois' eyes drifted above his shoulder. "He's got to find me."

He laughed mockingly in her face. "Who, Lois? Who? The Batman? He's not looking for you. Superman?" His smile was feral. "That freak in the blue suit who flies around Metropolis rescuing kittens from trees?" He worked his mouth as he tipped his chin down to regard her. "It's been over four hours – four _hours –_ since I sent the second video out. Why hasn't he found you yet? Doesn't he have some sort of _super power_ where he can see through stuff? Why hasn't found you yet?"

Lois' face contorted in frustration. She didn't have an answer to the Joker's question.

"I'll tell you why, Lois. Because he doesn't care about you, either. You're old news to him. Otherwise, he would have found you by now. He's already moved on to another girl, someone who's smarter than you are, someone who's _prettier_ than you are. I _told_ you, Lois. You're disposable."

Lois' eyes glazed over. She shook her head in denial, the insinuation hitting like a punch to the gut.

"Somehow… he'll find me."

"No, Lois, he _won't_." The Joker's face grew dark. "You think that he cares about you, but he doesn't. It doesn't matter how much you want him to find you. _Hoping_ that he'll find you won't make him magically appear."

A triumphant smile played on his lips.

"There's no one, Lois. You're nothing, _nothing_ to the outside world but a savory tidbit of gossip now, a tangent to the story of Gotham burning."

Lois swayed on her feet. The last frayed strand that tethered her to hope and reality snapped. She made no outward sound as the surface of her sanity cracked, leaving myriad spider web fractures around it.

"I'm the only one you have." He drew her into him and embraced her firmly, holding the back of her head. "I'm the only one you have. The Batman's not here. Superman's not here. The police aren't coming. Your so-called friends and colleagues aren't going to put their lives on the line for you Lois."

Lois choked on a cry in her throat.

"I'm all that you have, Lois. I'm the only one left. I'm the only one who can help you now. I can free you from your old life. All the contrivances, an—and, and the _shallow_ ness, the manufactured _trap_ pings, _all_ of it has gotten you to where you are, right now. This all started – _all_ of it – because of you."

Her voice was hushed. "I'm so sorry."

"I know you are. You can _see_ it now, can't you? You were the mouthpiece for a diseased institution that feeds on the lives of the defeated and the outcasts, force-feeding opinions and beliefs into the willing and open minds of the masses. It's exactly what's always been going on, Lois, for the ages. It takes a strong person to look the monster in the face and call it by its name. I'm not the monster. _They are._ "

He looked at her and nodded earnestly. "I'm all that you have left. I'm the only one who can help you, Lois. It's all in _my_ hands, now."

She stared at him blankly.

"Say it, Lois. Say that I'm all that you have."

He was right. No one was coming. He _was_ all that was left.

"You're… all… that I have."

"Again."

"You're all that I have."

"There's no one else. Say it."

"There's no one but you."

"Good." His smile was wicked, as he stroked the side of her face. "I hold your life in my hands. Your. Life."

She closed her eyes and twin trails of tears leaked out, running down her cheeks. "Are… are you going to kill me now?"

His eyes narrowed, and his smile broadened to show all of his yellowed teeth. Lois was ready. She wondered if he would kill her quickly, or if the pain would fade fast. She just wanted to disappear.

"No. No, Lois," he licked his lips, "it was _never_ my plan to kill you. You're too valuable to me. No one else can see what you're capable of, but I can." He ran a hand down the length of her hair, and brought his hand up to her chin, brushing his thumb over her lips. "You have a beautiful darkness in you. And I just want…." he slowly drew in his breath and exhaled, "to let. It out."

Lois felt a new feeling well up inside of her, one she hadn't felt for him yet: gratitude.

"Come on, Lois, let's let the darkness in you out."

He stepped away from her, bent down and pulled one of DJ's socks off of his foot. "Who was Harvey Dent, Lois?"

She couldn't take her eyes from his. "The D.A. The one who was killed."

"And what does Gotham feel for him?"

"They feel that his memory is their only hope."

He threw the sock to the side. "Yes. What is the memory of Harvey Dent?"

"The memory of Harvey Dent is Gotham's only hope."

"Is the Batman coming for you?" He pulled off the other sock.

"No, he's not."

"Is Superman coming to find you?"

"No." Lois didn't even feel a pang of emotion at the sound of his name. Some part of her reasoned that the apathy wasn't right, but she brushed the thought aside.

"Is anyone coming for you, Lois?"

"No."

"Who's the only one you have?"

She tilted her head to the side thoughtfully, her tongue thick in her mouth. "You are."

"Who?"

"You. You're the only one."

"Yes, Lois I am the only one." He looked at her with fascination. All her defenses were gone. She had no strength left, physically, emotionally or psychologically. He knew that he had put her through as much psychological terror as she could possibly take before completely breaking.

Which was why the next little push would be so satisfying.

"Lois, you called me a 'freak' earlier." He spat the word with staccato venom.

"I did?" Her words were slow. The throbbing in her stomach where he had cut her had stopped. So had the pounding over her ear where the bullet had grazed her.

She felt like she were… receding. To where, she wasn't sure. But it was pleasant. It felt safe.

The Joker leaned over and picked up the remote, to unfreeze both programs. He muted the sound so that images of chaos and violence silently flooded the room. The blue glow cast by the televisions illuminated him in an eerie ethereal aura, casting ominous shadows along his face. "Look at those images, Lois. _Those_ are the freaks. The people who can't think for themselves, the ones who want to play it safe and be taken care of. Those who are afraid to fight for what they want. _That,_ " his outstretched arm was shaking as it pointed at the screen, "that is unnatural. That's what a freak is."

He closed his eyes and winced, as if a memory had physically lacerated him. "You s—" He threw his head back and clenched the hair on both sides of his head, letting out a guttural moan. It looked to Lois as if he were in pain. He exhaled through pursed lips, and began panting to pace his words. "You see, Lois," the Joker began again, "it's not what you hide that defines you. It's what you show the world. It takes courage to show who you are."

In his mind's eye the Joker saw a brilliant flash of white light. And then he felt the pain. There had been so many times… so many occasions when it had nearly torn him apart. Until he learned to embrace the pain. Until it began to define him. That was a freedom that few had. He wanted to bring that to Lois. The freedom to express every impulse of rage, every moment of hatred, _that_ was real. _That_ was beautiful.

Some called him a monster for it. But to him, it was art: the deconstruction of contrivances and falsehoods. The unmasking of the truth to unleash chaos.

"Time to get real, Lois. You've shown me who you are. If I'm going to help you – and I'm the only one who _can_ – I'm going to show you who _I_ am."

He moved his hands down to the hem of the long-sleeved black shirt, as he turned and squared his back to her. He slowly lifted the shirt over his back, as if he were revealing a priceless work of art at a gallery. Intellectually, some part of Lois knew she should be horrified at what she saw. But she wasn't. She just… looked.

As the shirt lifted up to his shoulders, an extensive set of raised scars marred the length of his back. Some of them crossed each other, others appeared knotted like a rope. Knife wounds. Lash marks. Puncture wounds. He pulled the shirt over his head, and withdrew both arms from the sleeves. As he slowly turned around to face her, the light from the television cast valleys in the hollows beneath the ridges of the scars. A long one ran down his bicep to his elbow. What appeared to be a gunshot wound, poorly attended to but long-since healed, appeared just under the right side of his rib cage. What appeared to be more lash marks covered the front of his wiry but muscular torso. Welts and bruises were forming where she had pistol whipped him. Evidence of a deep gash running from his heart up to his left shoulder, passing just under the neck, was the most visible one of all.

Lois was transfixed. She had never seen anything like it before. The Joker ran the flat of his palm down the front of his chest as he kept his eyes on her, unblinking. "These are _real,_ Lois." He struck himself in the chest hard with a fist for emphasis in cadence with his words. "I! Am! Real!" He ran his tongue along his bottom lip. "I'm not a freak, Lois."

She shook her head. "No."

"Who am I, Lois?"

"You're the only one I've got."

He nodded silently, raising the shirt up to his face. He paused while eyeing her, then took a fierce swipe at his own face with it. Along the left side of his cheek. Again across the forehead. Down at the chin.

He was removing what was left of his make up.

________________________________

The Batman had gone down only four streets so far off of Morrow. Three of the unnamed cross streets, each at least a half-mile in length, were home to abandoned warehouses and gutted factories. The one street that did have row houses he could quickly eliminate, because they had been built too close to the water to have a basement. And Jones had definitely mentioned that there was a basement. It was where the stolen weapons were housed.

He started down the fifth street, and slammed to a halt. He could feel his anger and desperation grow. Along one side were dilapidated row houses. There had to be at least a hundred. And still thirty-one more streets to check as possible locations. The futility of the mission waxed, as did his frustration.

"Damn it!" He punched the titanium steering wheel hard enough to nearly shatter the bones in his hand. He floored the accelerator, and shot down the street, praying that somehow, he would catch a break.

________________________________

It was off. All of it.

The Joker stood before her, unmasked at his own hand.

He stood staring at her with an odd expression on his face. She couldn't tell if it were one of confrontation or self-consciousness. She was struck by the darkness of his eyes. There was mistrust in them. Strangely, for as savagely as his face was marred by the scars, it was still a handsome one. And he was young, probably two years younger than she was, possibly more. None of this processed into a coherent deduction about the man's stability, or lack thereof. Lois just looked at him, fascinated.

"This is who I _am,_ Lois. I'm not a freak."

She shook her head. "You're not a freak."

There was a spark of something in his eyes. His expression changed. It had softened somehow. "No, I'm not. I'm more real than _any_ of them out there." His hands went to the fly of the jeans, and he unbuttoned them. Lois watched his hands descend as he drew the zipper down. He folded back the jeans at the waist, exposing a fair-colored tuft of pubic hair underneath. He wore no underwear beneath the pants. Lois looked at the region where his hands lingered, but felt no threat from what she was seeing.

"Lois?"

She raised her eyes to meet his. He smiled at her. It was genuine. It was beautiful.

He bent down, slid the pants down to his ankles and stepped out of them. He tossed the jeans onto the back of the sofa. He stood before her, completely undressed, as exposed as he could possibly be. The Joker didn't feel threatened by the stripping away of the clothes, or by removing the make up. As he watched her face, and her unwavering stare, he felt… empowered.

Her eyes traveled down the length of his body. More deep and angry red scars laced the lengths of his lanky legs. His skin was very pale, likely not having seen the sun for many years. It made the contrast against the scars all the more stark. He tilted his head as he regarded her. "Who's the only one that you have, Lois?"

"You are." Exhaustion, desperation, physical and emotional torture, fear… all of it had broken her down. Broken her, the way he had intended.

"Who is going to help you, Lois? Who will help you become more beautiful than you could possibly imagine?"

"You." She nodded.

"Yes, and you're going to help _me,_ for helping _you."_ He licked his lips slowly. "Aren't you?"

"Yes, I will." The words didn't seem to be coming from her. Who else could they be coming from? She wasn't sure she had even spoken them.

"You're here to help me, Lois. That's why I chose you."

She nodded slowly. "You chose me."

"Mmmmm hmmmmm." He held out his hand. "Come here."

Her limbs felt heavy, but she took a few steps until she stood in front of him. He put his hands on her shoulders, and looked her intensely in the eyes. "I chose you, Lois. You're going to help me. You're going to help me report what's real. What's true," he nodded, "because you're a _reporter_. And that's what reporters do. Truth. Not fabrication. Not rumors or gossip. Truth."

She nodded, unblinking.

"You're going to play a game with me, Lois. And it will be so much fun." He slowly blinked his eyes and softened his voice further, dropping it to its lowest register. "Who was Harvey Dent?"

"Gotham's D.A."

"And where is he now?"

"He's dead."

"How does Gotham feel about his memory?"

"The memory of Harvey Dent is Gotham's only hope."

"Yes. So wouldn't it be fun to take that last bit of hope away from Gotham, and watch them freefall into despair and self-destruction?"

Lois looked at his mouth. She watched his lips move in a hypnotic motion. "Uh huh."

"Look at me." He gently lifted her face so they were eye to eye. His face was mere inches from hers. "You're going to report the truth for me, Lois. The _truth_ is, Harvey Dent was a killer who broke the same laws he fought to uphold. The _truth_ is, Gotham's White Knight murdered five people, but the Batman and the Gotham Police covered it up. The _truth_ is, Harvey was no hero to anyone. The sycophants and hypocrites of Gotham worship the memory of a man who doesn't even exist." Wicked merriment danced in his eyes. "I wonder what would happen to the city of Gotham, if it found out that its hero was the same type of monster they accuse _me_ of being, that the police covered it up, and the fugitive they all spit on now took the fall?"

He tilted his head thoughtfully. "How would they feel if they knew that none of what happened tonight – _none_ of it – would have happened if they didn't cover up Harvey Dent's crimes?"

Lois looked from one of his eyes to the other. "Why did he change? What happened to him?"

He lowered his mouth to her ear. " _I_ happened to him, Lois." He began rhythmically rubbing her back in a soothing motion, lulling her into a submissive lean against him. "Just like I'm going to happen. To you."

He slid his left hand up to the base of her skull and gently kneaded her neck. Lois exhaled slowly as she rested her head on his chest. With his right hand, he reached for the small plastic bag in the pocket of the discarded jeans. He unrolled the bag and pulled out what was inside. He continued to work his hand at the base of her neck. Lois misinterpreted it to be a soothing, comforting gesture. One of care.

It wasn't. He was probing the back of her neck for the right spot.

"Who's the only one you've got, Lois?" He kissed the top of her head.

"You are," she sighed. Was there anything else before tonight? Her mind seemed to be drawing a blank.

"Good girl." He brought both hands to the back of her neck, and positioned the sturdy, industrial gauge sewing needle. He marked his position with the pad of his left index finger, and with his right hand, brought it into place.

"Lois?" He bent down and whispered softly in her ear. She closed her eyes and listened. His tone was hushed, but she heard every word he said. She understood: it was just for her to hear, and no one else.

Then he slowly opened his left palm and brought it to the back of her head, holding it firmly against his chest. In the most hushed of tones, he spoke: "Don't move, Lois." He leaned his left cheek against the side of her head as he cradled her to him, to brace her. "This is _really_ going to hurt."

He plunged the needle upward into her neck.

Lois' body went rigid with excruciating pain, and she felt as though she were exploding. She screamed at the top of her lungs in agony, a long drawn out banshee wail. The Joker savored it like wine. He withdrew the needle swiftly and let Lois collapse onto the floor, twisting and writhing in pain. Her mouth was frozen open in a gaping scream, long after her wails had stopped. Her limbs twitched as waves of searing pain washed over her body. She convulsed.

The Joker watched her with detachment. After several seconds the thrashing stopped, and she stared wide-eyed at the ceiling, pupils fully dilated and her lips twitching.

The Joker crouched over her and brushed the hair out of her face.

"Lois? You know that awful broadcast you anchored about me? I forgive you now."

He smiled, stood up and left the room to get dressed.

________________________________

 

. . . . . . .

Author's Notes for "The Lesson: Sanity Cracked"

. . . . . . .

_The title of this chapter refers to the precarious grasp on sanity that both the Joker and Lois now hold. Everything the Joker has done to Lois has been carefully orchestrated, per Dr. Crane's instructions. Despite some surprises that the Joker didn't account for (like Curtis' coup attempt), he never deviated from his plan for handling Lois. When he made Lois beg for her life, he was conditioning her to stop thinking for herself, forcing her mind open so he could let himself in and break everything he could get his hands on. He may espouse free thinking, but he certainly wants to control those around him._

_BTW, this story is far from over..._

_-4ofCups, 2009.07.12_

 

 


	43. Men of Wicked Ways

*** MEN OF WICKED WAYS ***

**Chapter 43**

**. . . . . . .**

"Delta Three-Twenty-Eight, you're cleared for landing on Two."

Fred Grimes pinched the bridge of his nose under his glasses as he looked at the black and green screen before him. A small glyph labeled DL328 moved toward runway number two. He shifted restlessly in his chair, from within the circular room at the top of Gotham International Airport's control tower. Seasoned air traffic controllers were used to late nights and graveyard shifts, but the night's events surrounding the city had almost exhausted the reserves of Fred's adrenaline. Nerves were frayed and tempers were short. Looking out the windows across the East River to Gotham's waterfront district, he shook his head as fires burned in the distance.

He glanced over at the executive com line, willing the phone to ring. It didn't.

He was incredulous that they were still clearing planes for landing in Gotham. For over four hours, reports had flooded the radio waves and news channels documenting the terrorism let loose on the city by the Joker. Yet no word had come about rerouting incoming flights to neighboring cities. Airport executives had confirmed that the state's governor was on a commercial plane arriving from Los Angeles, and getting her on the ground was crucial for the executive order to call in the National Guard. That aside, Fred didn't see why all the other planes needed to land in Gotham.

All outbound flights had been grounded. Fred knew he should be grateful for small favors, but that seemed a small consolation.

_This is bullshit. We should be rerouting incoming traffic to Metropolis. We've got brain-dead GIA officials who can't get their heads out of their asses to make a decision. The bureaucrats at the FAA are probably still quarreling with the TSA jack-offs over who gets to be Big Man on Campus to give the final say. Typical red tape bullshit, and we're the ones who get to clean up the mess._

Thanks to a recent airport expansion a few years earlier, Gotham International had overtaken Hartsfield-Jackson Atlanta International Airport as the busiest in the world. Just over three thousand flights passed in and out of Gotham every day. Although the bulk of that traffic came during peak business hours, the skies were still filled with planes circling the airport, even at 2:00 am. Until the final word did come through the proper channels to reroute those planes still airborne, Fred and his colleagues had fifty-seven more jet airliners to land within the next hour alone.

A light illuminated on his console, and a pilot's voice came through. "Gotham, this is United Eight-Seventy-Seven out of Dallas. We've been circling for over an hour and we have a sick passenger on board. Requesting priority landing."

Fred scoffed and crossed his arms, looking for the glyph on his screen labeled UA877. _Just give the bastard some Pepto Bismol and tell him to suck it up._ "United Eight-Seven-Seven, there are nine planes ahead of you."

Fred wasn't the only one losing patience. Sarcasm was evident in the pilot's voice. "If none of _them_ have passengers with heart conditions, I suggest you consider shuffling the line and move us to the _front_ of it."

 _Oh super, the "heart condition" card. Great. I wouldn't put it past other flights to pull that trick to land sooner._ Even if it were a bluff, safety protocol stipulated that priority be given for alleged medical emergencies. Fred exhaled his annoyance and looked at the line up. Either an incoming Northwest flight from Minneapolis or a Delta flight from Salt Lake would take the bump. _Fuck it. I'll let Sue decide._ "Sue," Fred rubbed the side of his face, "you make the call. Minneapolis or Salt Lake. Who do we bump for these pricks from Dallas?"

The murmur of his colleagues' voices behind him, usually audible in hushed tones as they guided other flights down to the runways, had gone silent. He heard a few regulation beeps from the instruments, but no response from Sue.

Fred pivoted in his chair to the right. "Hey, Sue, are you asleep—"

The click of metal silenced him. Fred gaped mute as the face of his colleague looked back at him, pallor white with fear, eyes wide and tears streaming down her cheeks. A hulking man in an army green jacket stood behind her with a cocked gun to her temple. Fred's eyes darted around the room. Two other armed men stood in the middle of the control hub, holding semi-automatic weapons trained on his fellow air traffic controllers. It was as if all three men had materialized out of thin air.

The man behind Sue was chewing gum. He snapped it in insolent nonchalance. He narrowed his eyes and glared at Fred. "Hey, asshole, what's your name?"

Fred slowly lifted his hands in the air in a show of submission. "F—Fred."

The man smirked and mocked him. "Well, 'F—Fred', I'm going to shoot your coworker here, unless you do as I say. You got me?" Sue coughed out a sob and started to shake.

Fred nodded his head vigorously. "Okay. Okay, sure. I'll help you. What do you want?"

Lundgren looked over to Hobbs and Lucas, who were watching the others like hawks. They swept the room in slow, broad arcs with their arms, ensuring everyone saw their weapons. Lundgren then turned back to the trembling man. "I want you to show me where you keep your _big_ planes."

Fred furrowed his brow. "I'm not sure I understand—"

"Oh, I think you do. I want a big jet. _Really_ big."

Fred's mind drew a blank as his heart pounded in his chest. Terror had shorted his logic, and he couldn't process what was unfolding before him. "W—what kind of plane?"

Lundgren leaned over and smiled. "Are you deaf, or just retarded, Fuh—Fuh—Fred?" The smile didn't reach his eyes, which were cold and menacing. "Let me make myself clear: a Boeing Seven. Four. Seven. Four-hundred."

Fred's bowels rumbled, and he feared he'd lose everything in his colon on the spot. He felt like he was having an out-of-body experience: an armed gunman stood before him threatening their lives over a 747-400. It had never crossed his mind that a ground hijacking was in the realm of possibilities. The GIA air traffic control tower was supposed to be impenetrable. Secure. This couldn't possibly be happening.

Lundgren tilted his head to the side. "And we want one that's got a full tank of fuel. Lots and lots of gasoline in it."

Fred swallowed. Was this a cross-country hijacking? Were these men bound for the West Coast? He didn't understand.

The smile vanished from Lundgren's face and his eyes went black. "The Joker likes to play with gasoline. The more, the better."

And then Fred understood.

________________________________

Staring at the display of his cell phone, a wave of nausea overtook Detective Murdock. _Fuck! FUCK!_

The text message he'd typed up, before using Commissioner Gordon's cell phone to call the mayor, was still in edit mode.

He'd forgotten to press the Send button.

Bile rose in his throat, and he looked at his watch. Murdock cursed aloud. He'd spent more time on the phone with Mayor Garcia than he'd intended, and time was something he had precious little of to squander, as Gotham slipped deeper into the orange burning night.

As the gravity the last hour's events crystallized into dawning comprehension, Murdock was overtaken by a dread that he hadn't felt in years. The revelation was nothing less than daunting: impossibly, the balance of power appeared to be shifting.

The Joker was in danger.

Serious danger. And he likely didn't know it yet.

And by extension, that meant that Joe Murdock was in danger, too. All of the Joker's men were.

In the ruthless landscape of crime, a small criminal is wise to ally himself with whoever the most fearsome is, the rationale being that it usually ensures a better chance of survival. No criminal in Gotham was more feared than the Joker; however, that certainly didn't guarantee survival for anyone. The men in his ranks all knew the risks of working for the clown: he had no loyalties, and was as likely to sacrifice his own men for the sheer sport of it as he was to facilitate escape. Despite the imminent danger and likelihood of treachery, men of vice still sought the Joker out. Some literally killed for the chance to work along side him.

Membership, after all, had its privileges.

Being in the Joker's crew brought notoriety. In the pit of Gotham's seedy underworld, it evidenced itself in an unspoken respect and recognition. Men who associated with the Joker found others clearing a wide berth for them on the streets, in lounges of ill repute and in the darkest of corners where foul deeds are manifested. The fear that the sociopath inspired translated into a power for others who were in his circle. There were men in Gotham who coveted that power by association. Many, many men.

Power defines the hierarchy in the animal kingdom, and in his most basic nature, man is an animal. A predator. Predators react – in instinctive and primitive cognizance – to the crude yet communicative power of bodily fluids. As a feral dog marks its territory with urine, warning others to stay clear of his domain, so had the Joker marked his vicinity with blood. The Joker had cut a sanguine swath across Gotham with feverish abandon, staking claim to nearly every corner of the city. He had supreme power, and there were always lackeys to be found who wanted a taste of it.

As the Joker made his dominance known, he'd left countless victims in his violent wake. In the process, however, he had inspired as much resentment and loathing among fellow criminals as he had terror.

The Joker had enemies. Countless scores of them. His men knew this, but it seemed only a footnote not worth trifling over. What did it matter how many enemies the man had, if they were all too afraid to retaliate?

The only adversary who could match the Joker in sheer intimidation who was willing to act was the Batman… but he was only one man. And a man who wouldn't kill, at that. Despite their myriad number, all the rest of the Joker's opponents were impotent with fear, and wouldn't dare make the first move against him. Murdock sometimes wondered what would happen if just one of the Joker's enemies took that first stand.

It seemed that Murdock didn't have to wonder any longer.

As the Batman revealed to him in their chance conversation, Vincent Maroni _had_ taken action against the Joker, by placing a ten million dollar price on the madman. Suddenly, the improbability of anyone launching a proactive attack on the Joker was no longer an amusing and unlikely hypothesis.

It was happening.

Despite his stealthy infiltration into the Gotham Police Department, and countless deceitful machinations pulled off with cool precision right under the nose of Commissioner Gordon, Murdock now found himself outright frightened.

He wiped his sweaty palms on his pants as he turned over the revelations in his mind that he'd happened upon in his conversations with both the Batman and the mayor.

_This is bad. Jesus, this is really, really bad._

Maroni had placed the bounty on the Joker's head, officially declaring war. Almost as many people in Gotham feared the Mob as feared the clown, so there would be many willing to curry favor with the Mafia by hunting down the Joker.

There was a choreographed prison break, wherein only the deadliest of criminals were set free. It reeked of a mercenary plot to hunt the Joker down.

The Batman had Jones with him. No mention of Wallace, which meant he was likely dead, as the two were working together for the night. Batman stated that Jones would take him to the Joker's location. Jones was either coerced or turned traitor. Likely the latter.

 _How is it possible that any of this is even happening?_ Murdock reeled, and ran his hands through his hair. It seemed impossible that, on a night when the Joker had brought Gotham to its knees, he was no longer the predator but the prey.

Murdock had to warn the Joker about both the Batman and the Mob's call for his head. The most imminent danger was discovery by the Batman. The accidental forewarning from the Batman left for the possibility – however slim – of intercepting Jones before he could betray the Joker's location. With Wallace dead, that left Curtis as the only other inside man who could possibly locate and get to Jones before the Joker's base of operation was revealed.

That had been the intention of the text message, to facilitate immediate action to thwart the Batman's efforts.

Only the text message hadn't been sent. Murdock wondered if it was already too late.

With unsteady fingers, Murdock pressed the Send button, hoping that Curtis was in close enough proximity when he received the message to act in time: TRAITOR IN HOUSE - JONES. KILL ON SIGHT.

Murdock looked at his watch again, aware that his arm was shaking. It was 2:00 am. The Joker would be leaving their base soon, heading out to meet the rest of the men at the airport by 3:30. But the Joker wouldn't be leaving just yet; there was a chance that the Batman might find him first. Murdock needed to call the Joker directly to warn him. As paranoia crept in, Murdock felt compelled to make the call from a more clandestine location.

After four sloppy misses, he finally found success in putting Commissioner Gordon's cell phone into the inside pocket of his jacket. His hands were shaking badly with nervous energy and fear. Murdock took a deep breath to gather his composure, and he opened Gordon's office door.

Stepping out into the hallway, he nodded in the direction of a few harried-looking detectives as they brushed by him. Walking four doors down, he put his hand on the door handle to the stairway exit, and looked around to see if anyone were watching. The chaos that the Joker had unleashed all over Gotham appeared to keep the other officers fully focused on their tasks at hand. Murdock opened the door, and stepped into the cement stairway, cast in a sickly green pallor of fluorescent light.

Murdock's breath came in frantic bursts, as he dreaded breaking the news to the clown.

His hand shook as he punched the numbers. It certainly wasn't a phone number he could keep in a cell phone address book. He had it marked in his memory. To his knowledge, only a few other men were privy to it.

Despite having numerous stolen cell phones at his disposal, the Joker had blocked all the phones from incoming calls. There was only one cell phone that the Joker allowed for his men to reach him from the outside. There was an unspoken understanding that it was for use in emergencies only. To Murdock's knowledge, no one had ever dared to call the cell phone, too afraid to interrupt the Joker from doing God only knew what to God knew whom to pass the time.

Murdock swallowed, realizing he was likely the first to actually dial the Joker's recondite number. _Hell, if this doesn't qualify as an emergency, I don't know what does._

Joe dialed the unlisted number to the unregistered cell phone. As the phone rang, he wondered if the Joker would offer him clemency for the call – born out of loyalty – or if he would nonetheless eviscerate him for the trespass of privacy. One outcome seemed as likely as the other.

No one knew what went through the mind of the madman. And Murdock suspected that he really didn't want to know.

________________________________

Despite the drink in his hand, Vincent Maroni's numbness was starting to wear off.

An hour and a half had passed since learning of his daughter's brutal murder at the hands of Sergei Kruzynski. The grief threatened to crush him. He chewed his bottom lip and swirled what little alcohol was left in the glass, listening to what remained of the ice cubes clink against each other. He watched the liquid coat and envelop the smooth sides of the ice, overtaking it, splashing against the sides and wearing it down into a shallow pool.

In his mind's eye, he pictured flammable liquid coating the inside of Tessa's car, soaking into her clothes and splashing onto her face, a fraction of a second before the flames overtook her. Overtook and consumed her, just as the alcohol in his glass inevitably consumed the ice.

He clenched the glass in his fist, and threw it against the wall of his office. Shards of glass were sent scattering around the room, and Dr. Silvi jumped back in apprehension. Like a jackal, Maroni ululated his rage from the depths of his core.

Grief and shock were seguing into rage. Dr. Silvi slowly backed away toward the door. The wrath of a grief-stricken father could be a terrifying beast to bear witness to; but the wrath of such a man, with the resources that Maroni had at his disposal, could be a monster like none other.

Maroni's leg was throbbing from the bullet wounds. Dr. Silvi had extracted the bullet from his calf, but didn't have the tools to extract the one lodged next to his fibula. At a very minimum, general anesthesia was necessary to block what would be an excruciating extraction. Until Dr. Silvi could get Maroni to a hospital clandestinely, the second bullet had to remain in his leg, bandaged until further treatment was available.

The rage that fueled Maroni eclipsed the pain, and he staggered to his feet. He hadn't relinquished his grip on Wallace's cell phone. The battery was dying, but the photo of Wallace holding the stolen rocket launcher was still visible. He thought about the conversation he'd had with his wife, Diana, and the vile threats Kruzynski had spat at her. Tessa had been the first casualty, but they'd made a threatening promise: unless the Belarussians got their stolen weapons back, for which they held the Mob responsible, Diana would be next. Kruzynski wasn't letting this go.

It was imperative that Maroni find the Joker: not just to satisfy his personal bloodlust, but his wife's life depended on the pilfered arsenal making its way into the hands of the Belarussians.

With labored movements, he turned toward the door, and Dr. Silvi rushed forward to steady him.

Maroni's breath was arduous, and he panted his instructions. "Take me. Upstairs. I need. To see how close. They're getting to. Finding him." The drive to see the Joker beg for mercy on his knees before him was the only impetus propelling Maroni forward and out of the gaping chasm of grief.

Dr. Silvi opened his mouth to protest, but the look Maroni shot him was pure molten magma. Thinking better of it, the doctor simply acquiesced with a silent nod. He opened the door, and gingerly helped Maroni hop out into the hallway.

While they waited for the elevator to reach the basement to take them upstairs, Maroni glared at the clock on the wall. "Five hours."

Dr. Silvi knotted his brow, searching for a meaning behind the declaration. He found none. "Vin?"

Maroni looked askance at him. "Dawn. The sun comes up in five hours. Somebody better bring me that fuckin' painted-faced freak before sunrise, or I start killing anything within range."

Dr. Silvi nodded in a show of sympathy. Inside, his mind raced, trying to figure out how he could distance himself from the _capofamiglia_ within the next five hours without raising suspicion. Despite his loyalty to the Mafioso at his side, the doctor knew that finding and capturing the Joker wouldn't prove to be quite as straightforward an endeavor as Maroni seemed to think.

________________________________

The airport guard watched the dark man with trepidation.

An imposing figure stood at the monitor of a computer kiosk, flanked on either side by two men who were equally as burley. All three men were printing up boarding passes. The ticket counters had long since closed, as had the airport lounges and restaurants. Nodding to the men at his side, the man in the middle folded his pass and stuck it inside his jacket pocket. The others followed suit. With a nonchalant swagger, all three men made their way out into a central atrium in the middle of an airport food court, where numerous stranded passengers were sleeping or grousing about the delayed flights piling up from the grounded traffic.

A bespectacled college student wearing a Dartmouth sweatshirt typed away on a laptop, sitting in a padded bench-like chair with two empty seats on either side of him. A shadow fell across his keyboard, and he looked up into the face of a man scowling down at him. "We need these seats." The voice had a trace of a foreign accent. Judging from the stern expressions on the men's faces, the kid nodded nervously, and scrambled away with his duffle bag and computer.

With a sigh of exhaustion, Sergei Kruzynski dropped himself onto the seat the boy had vacated. His men took their places on either side of him.

The older of the two turned to him. "You sure you want to fly out in the morning? The radio news report said that no planes are allowed off the ground, because of the Joker's attacks on the city. It could be several hours before air traffic will start up again. Everyone here is stuck."

Sergei smirked. "I'll wait. And so will both of you." Despite his being in a very public locale, he had a sense of amnesty. Maroni wouldn't dare report their attack on his daughter to the Gotham police. Instead, they'd be hunting him down in assumed hideouts in the warehouse district. This would be one of the last places the Mob would think to check for a retaliatory strike.

The Lufthansa flight to Frankfurt was originally scheduled to depart at 7:17 am, with a subsequent connection to Minsk. At the rate flights were stacking up, it could very well be around noon or later before his plane would depart, assuming airport officials sanctioned departures again at sunrise. Sergei and his men would wait out the delay, however long it took so he could deliver the news to his family in person: blood had been shed for the death of his brothers. His personal war wasn't over, but wheels were in motion to ensure more Mafioso heads would roll. His countrymen would have their weapons so no more families had to lose sons and brothers needlessly in their resistance efforts.

The younger of the two henchman pulled out his cell phone to make a call. He paused when he saw a text message from one of their crew. His meaty thumb rolled over the cell phone's ball to reveal the message in its entire length. He turned to Kruzynski. "Is your cell phone off?"

Keeping his eyes forward, eyeing one of the airport guards mistrustfully, Sergei nodded once with conviction.

"I think you need to turn it on and check your messages."

Sergei looked at him. "Why?"

"Well," the man looked back down at his own phone, "Ivan has been trying to reach you, to tell you that Vincent Maroni is posting a ten million dollar reward for the Joker, if he's brought to him alive."

Sergei's voice lowered in register. "What?"

The lackey shrugged his shoulders. "I don't know what that's about, but that's what Ivan wrote here. He heard it in a pool hall in the Narrows, about a half hour ago."

Sergei's train of thought was interrupted by the movements of the guard across the food court. The guard was watching them stealthily, and raised his radio to his mouth. The device shielded his lips from Kruzynski's view, so he couldn't discern what the guard was saying. However, the body language spoke volumes.

Kruzynski stood up and buttoned up his jacket. "I think we need to finish this conversation in the terminal. We're checking in now." All three men strode to the security line. They presented their passports, allowing for passage through the metal detectors. As they passed through the safety checks without issue, making their way to the tram out to the international terminal, the woman at the passport check point looked over at the guard who had radioed her to be wary of the three men who had just passed. She shrugged her shoulders in an exaggerated motion, indicating that there wasn't anything she could do to detain them. All their paperwork was legitimate, and they had valid boarding passes.

The guard still harbored suspicions. He radioed his colleagues in the international terminal to be on the lookout for the three large men. Something about them seemed... wrong.

________________________________

Edward Tritt looked at the clock on the dashboard of the police car. He and Jonas Hodge had spent the last half hour pulling up the mug shots of all the violent sex offenders microchipped while in Gotham Maximum Security Prison over the last four years. Vasquez and Smitty, still shackled at the ankles and wrists, were sizing up every name and face, searching for recollected ties to the Joker. So far, only two hits had come up. One of the matches had just been killed a month earlier in a heroine bust, and the other had just landed himself in prison down in Virginia.

There were still countless more mug shots to view. All the profiles were pulling up in alphabetical order, and they were still only in the B's. Tritt cursed under his breath. _How many sex offenders does this cesspool of a city have, anyway?_ At this rate, they'd be here for days. Tritt was beginning to think that his plan had been too hastily contrived, and the gears started turning as he tried to craft another avenue to find the Joker.

Nearly resigned to failure, he jumped in his seat at the sound of Vasquez' voice. "There," Vasquez said, pointing to the monitor. "I recognize that guy. He bragged about working with the Joker."

Their prospects suddenly brightened. _Maybe this will work after all._ "You're sure? You know this guy, and he said he worked with the Joker?"

"Yep," Vasquez nodded his assurance. "Marshall Bromeier. Not a big guy, but he was off. You know, mentally." Vasquez motioned to his temple in a circular motion. "I think he was in Arkham before Gotham Max. He definitely mentioned the Joker."

Tritt's hopes were dashed. " Arkham? Well then, the guy is a fruitcake. We can't believe anything he says."

Vasquez stiffened in indignation. "No, man, I'm telling you. He didn't just talk about the Joker like a loony would. I think that there's a connection there."

Jonas piped up from behind, keeping the guns trained on the death row inmates. "At least it's a start, right?" Jonas wanted to get the hell out of there. By some miracle, no cars had passed them in the last half hour. Despite the fact that his and Edward's prison guard outfits could be mistaken for Gotham police uniforms, there was no room for misinterpretation as to what the bright orange jumpsuits on Vasquez and Smitty indicated. Hodge was restless. Their luck was sure to run out soon. Even though the bodies of the two cops and the driver of the Maxima were obscured from view, the whole scene had to look suspicious. A passerby was sure to be realize that what they were seeing wasn't a regulatory prisoner transfer.

Tritt didn't hide his cynicism. "Bromeier, huh?" He worked the chewing tobacco in his mouth, leaned forward and spat it onto the ground, partially hitting the laceless prison-issue sneaker that Smitty wore.

"Hey, asshole!" Smitty snapped at him. "Watch what you do with that shit!"

Edward slowly raised his eyebrows as a grin spread across his face. "You're not really in a position to be telling me what I can and can't do, now, _are_ you, dickwad?" Edward chuckled in triumph, and Smitty cursed under his breath.

A loud metallic bang turned the heads of all four men. The noise came from the laundry truck parked down the street.

The one that still had twenty-one death row inmates inside.

The banging was rhythmic, and growing in intensity. The sound ricocheted off the tall buildings, amplifying the cacophony. It wouldn't take long to catch someone's notice. Even though this was a low-rent, crime-infested area of town, it was likely that there were still tenants willing to call the police. The third guard peered his head around the back of the truck to look at Edward Tritt and Jonas Hodge. He shrugged his shoulders. "What do you want me to do?"

Edward cursed and clambered out of the squad car's driver's seat, gun drawn. He pointed it at Smitty. "You, turn around and march."

The ViCAP database continued to scroll through the inmates, though the system was unmanned. Men's faces appeared on screen. Unnoticed by Tritt or Hodge, the last names beginning with the letter "B" had run their course. As the four men began to cross the street, the program advanced into the "C" names of the sex offender database.

Smitty glared back at Tritt before turning to walk toward the truck. With Vaquez at his side, both men walked ahead of the prison guards with guns cocked. All four men approached the back of the truck, and the third guard stepped to the side.

Edward raised his voice. "Shut the fuck up in there!"

The banging had grown frantic. No longer were the thrusts from the inside coming in unison, but from panicked, angry fists and kicks being thrown by any man who was within striking distance of the side of the truck.

Hodge looked at Tritt. "We gotta let 'em out. Someone's gonna call another GPD car down here, and then we're all fucked."

Tritt grunted his reluctant concurrence. He motioned to the third guard to unfasten the hatch and throw the door up. As soon as the inmates heard the latch scrape against metal, all banging stopped. The metal door retracted upward and backward into the roof of the truck, revealing the sweaty faces of enraged inmates, some gasping for fresh air.

A dark behemoth with a shaven head stepped forward to the edge of the truck. All other inmates remained in the cargo hold, but stepped aside in deference, making way for him. It was clear who the alpha male was, even among the most fearsome of Gotham's death row violent offenders. The man came to a halt and glared down at the guards. He made no move to jump off the back of the truck. His silence was as commanding as his physique. His words came slowly and simply. "We want outta this truck, now."

There was no chorus of supporting or derisive remarks directed at the guards. All of the prisoners stood mute, allowing for this man to be their mouthpiece. To pipe up would have been to undermine the sway their leader held.

Edward raised his gun's barrel, so that the prisoner's head appeared in the sighting. "We'll let you out when we're good and ready."

The man lowered his head to meet Tritt's gaze. "No, you gonna let us out, _now._ I ain't runnin'. And my boys ain't runnin', neither. There may be some who run, but those who worth they salt, stay." He leaned down, rested his hand on the base of the truck's cargo bay and jumped down onto the street, directly in front of Tritt's gun. As he stood up, he reached his full height of nearly seven feet. At close proximity, Tritt could better see the swirling ink of tattoos on the side of the man's neck, and the eyes that crossed slightly.

Tritt didn't know his name, but he recognized him.

Other men slowly hopped down out of the truck, and fell in rank behind the giant. Obscured from the guards by the sheer number of men, the cowards in the back bolted once their feet hit the pavement. With shackled ankles they couldn't move fast, but the call of freedom was too strong for them to ignore.

"Hey! Freeze!" Hodge raised his shotgun and fired. He took three men down in five shots. "I said stop, mother fuckers!" Two more blasts, and another man down. Two inmates managed to duck behind cars and dart into an alleyway. Three more men ran straight down the block. Hodge fired again and hit one man squarely in the back of the head. Another shot, and another inmate crumpled to the street in agony, the better part of his thigh having been blown clean off his body, exposing the femur and sinew. "Damn it!" Hodge could see that the last man was too far out of range, skipping down the street as fast as his cuffed legs would allow.

Tritt and the other guard had kept their guns trained on the remaining fourteen men, but none had made any move to run or grab for the guards' weapons. Hodge came around the back of the truck panting. "Three got away. I nailed about five or six of 'em."

Tritt's eyes swept the men before him with wary calculation. "Six. You got six men." Fourteen left. It would have to suffice. _Fuck, this is unraveling. This isn't the way it was supposed to go down._

The large man spoke up again. "So hows about you tell us how we gonna help you get the Joker?"

Edward nodded toward Smitty and Vasquez. "Through microchipping. Those two have been looking for men in a police database with Joker ties. Sex offenders with microchips in them. When we make some matches, we're going to use the chips to locate the men. There's a chance one could be with the Joker."

The large man said nothing. He looked unblinking down at Tritt. Tritt wasn't sure if the man's silence were a sign of dissidence or willing compliance. He tried to coach the prisoners into a more collaborative frame of mind. "If we get the Joker alive to Maroni, I assure you that you'll be paid for your efforts."

The giant tilted his head to the side. "It's not _about_ money for me. My freedom's all I need. In fact, I could take that right now. But I ain't gonna. I want to see the clown get what he has comin'."

And then the recognition distilled in Edward Tritt's awareness. He didn't know the man's name, but he knew the face. Yes, he most certainly knew the face.

The man who towered above him had been convicted by the late Gotham district attorney, Harvey Dent. He had been the unlikely champion for justice among the brutal killers who had boarded _The Spirit,_ one of the two ferries the Joker had threatened to blow up the previous year.

The Joker had threatened his life, had toyed with him. By the looks of him, he didn't appear to be a man who liked being toyed with.

Back at the abandoned squad car, the ViCAP database continued to scroll forward. A name blinked on the screen, next to a mug shot: _CROSS, FILLMORE_

Tritt smirked. It seemed that fate had once again swung in his favor. When the man before him held court, the rest of the inmates listened with rapt attention. It was clear that they were willing to follow his lead, wherever it was directed. "So, I guess we've got ourselves a willing man."

The giant nodded. "Yes, you do. You got lots of willing men here."

The men behind him nodded in intense silence.

_(CRULLNER, JOSEPH)_

Hodge looked over at Tritt in apprehension. "We need to move this operation somewhere else. We couldn't possibly stick out more if we tried."

Tritt shook his head. "We don't have anything to go on yet."

"Hey," Vasquez piped up defensively, "I already gave you a name."

_(CRUWELL, HENRY)_

Tritt rolled his eyes. "Well excuse me if I don't jump all over the nutcase you fingered from the lineup."

Hodge was willing to take it as a starting point. "C'mon man, it's a start, okay? At the very least, we need to move this show outta sight."

The third guard spoke up. "How do we divide them up? What do we use to move them?"

One of the inmates spoke up. "We're not getting back into that fucking laundry truck."

_(CSELAY, NICO)_

Hodge started to work out the logistics. "We can fit four in the Maxima, and four can ride in the squad car."

Tritt shook his head and spat his words in sarcasm. "Brilliant, there's no opportunity for escape with _that_ plan."

Hodge shot back at him. "Well how subtle is our hunt gonna be if we're driving around a damned laundry truck?"

Tritt wasn't convinced. "And how do we know that if we split them up, they won't all just scatter like leaves?"

The giant spoke. "I give you my word. We ain't runnin'. We want the Joker caught. Any of these men breaks my word, he answers to me."

_(CUBREY, JERRY)_

Hodge was growing weary, looking at Vasquez and Smitty. "Let's take these two back to the screens again, to see if we get another hit."

The behemoth spoke up. "I suggest we move everything first. Into an alley or a parking lot. Out here on the street it's too open."

Hodge nodded. "Five blocks down, and one over on the right, there's an abandoned convenience store. Let's move everyone there."

Tritt shrugged his shoulders. "Okay, but that means everyone gets back into the truck for the move."

Protests came from the men until the giant turned his glare on them. All men fell silent. He looked back at Tritt. "You give me your word you let us out when we get there."

Tritt didn't blink. "Yeah. Of course. We'll let you out again."

_(CUDRICK, AARON)_

Tritt nodded at Smitty and Vasquez. "You two, you ride with me in the squad car. The rest of you, back in the truck. Hodge, you lead in the Maxima."

The prisoners wearily climbed back into the laundry truck, grumbling under their breath. The giant was the last one in. Even though he was just one man, the back of the truck visibly dipped to bear his weight as he climbed in.

After standing at his full height, he looked down at Tritt and met his eyes squarely. "Remember, you promised."

Tritt nodded, and flipped the switch. The door slowly lowered, enclosing the prisoners inside once again. Tritt turned toward the third guard. "You drive. Follow Hodge, and we'll bring up the rear." The guard nodded and walked toward the truck's cab.

_(CULBERT, JEREMIAH)_

Hodge and Tritt escorted Vasquez and Smitty to the back of the squad car. They opened the left rear door and both men got in. After Hodge shut the door, Vasquez shot across the seat, lunging for the right door, frantically clawing at it. Smitty chuckled. "No handle. These doors don't open from the inside, dumbass."

Tritt leaned in through the driver's door, and swung the computer screen backward to face the rear seat. "Have a look, and tell me if you recognize anyone." Smitty glared at him, but leaned forward to view the monitor. Vasquez looked out the side window, toward elusive freedom.

Tritt rapped his knuckles on the window hard. "Hey!" Both inmates turned to face him. Tritt pointed at Vasquez. "You! I said watch the screen!" Vasquez shrugged and sulked, turning his face to the monitor.

_(CUMMINGS, RANDY)_

Tritt waved Hodge toward the Maxima. "You lead the way."

Hodge winced. "Oh, come on, man. With them in the back seat?" He motioned to the bodies of the Maxima's owner and two dead officers. "Can't we drop 'em somewhere first?"

"No time for that. We'll dump 'em in a trash bin next to the parking lot where we'll meet you."

Hodge reluctantly made his way back to the car and started up the engine.

Tritt sank into the driver's seat of the squad car, and slammed the door.

_(CUPPOCK, DENNIS)_

Tritt started up the engine and looked in the rear view mirror. "Any other hits yet?"

"In the thirty seconds we've been in the back seat? Uh, _no._ " Smitty smiled in triumphant sarcasm.

"Watch your fuckin' mouth." Tritt eyed him in the mirror.

"How long do we have to do this?"

Tritt smiled. "Until you can make us all very rich men."

_(CURRANT, MOE)_

Smitty resigned himself to the fact that he had no upper hand in this situation. He leaned back against the seat.

Hodge pulled the Maxima away from the curb and slowly moved down the street. The laundry truck rattled along behind it, followed by Tritt and the men in the squad car. Vasquez was looking out the window again. He caught sight of an orange jumpsuit up on a fire escape. It was one of the convicts who had been smart and brave enough to take his chances and run. Vasquez leaned his forehead against the glass and watched in resentment as the stores flashed by him.

Smitty kept his eyes forward, trained on the screen. He felt the shocks give when they went over a rough curb into the parking lot of the dilapidated, abandoned convenient store. He looked up once to gauge the geography, then looked back at the screen.

A new name blinked on the monitor, along side a mug shot.

_(CURRS, BOBBY)_

________________________________

Barker watched the monitors with intent eyes. Focusing on the images picked up by the security cameras was proving a little harder than he had anticipated. He was distracted by his own unease.

The woman had called Mr. Joker a freak. Mr. Joker didn't like that word, and his voice had changed when he addressed her afterward. It wasn't good.

Wasn't good at all.

Barker tapped a key, and the camera scope shifted. Four cameras were mounted on the outside of the building to pick up unwelcomed movement. Since no one was monitoring them when Barker had come back earlier with the pizzas, there had been no one to see the two nasty boys launch their stealth attack on him.

The Joker used to keep the building booby-trapped from the outside. The problem was, his own men kept setting off the triggers, losing limbs and heads in the process. It seemed more effective, then, to have cameras capture movement on the outside, while a sentinel watched from the inside. Barker was happy to take on the monotonous task, as he rarely left the basement anyway. It imbued him with a sense of protecting Mr. Joker. He liked how that felt.

So Barker sat in his familiar spot, shifting the views from the building's cameras to the cameras affixed to other buildings and lampposts down the street.

Barker wondered if Mr. Joker would kill the woman. He hoped so. No one should talk to him like that and be allowed to live. It was blasphemy. Barker would never talk to him like that. Mr. Joker was magnificence personified, a glorious beast.

Maybe Mr. Joker would appreciate a show of fealty. Barker envisioned himself killing the woman for her unforgivable effrontery. He basked in the projection of the assumed accolades that Mr. Joker would bestow upon him for a demonstration of unwavering allegiance.

It was only right. A deity deserved no less.

As he watched the camera pan up and down the street, Barker's mind wandered, as he weighed the benefits of killing the woman in front of Mr. Joker, or presenting her to him already dead, as a wonderful surprise.

________________________________

_What the hell am I looking for? What am I expecting to see? A giant arrow in marquee lights pointing to the Joker's base?_

The Batman gnashed his teeth as the obsidian vehicle crept down the street lined with row houses. They were indistinguishable from one another. Worse yet, he still had no confirmation that he was even looking on the right street.

Frustration overtook him. He yanked the wheel hard, and pulled over to the sidewalk. The top opened and he vaulted out, body coursing with adrenaline and fury. He was dangerously close to losing control. If the Joker somehow materialized in front of him at this very moment, he'd likely drive the madman's head down to the pavement, and rain blows upon him until grey matter seeped through broken shards of skull.

He tipped his head back and let out a guttural cry of rage. This couldn't be happening again. He couldn't be this close to saving someone… only to fall short. For God's sake, he could actually feel tears of frustration beginning to well in the sockets of his eyes. He had not known this type of bloodlust since he had plotted to murder Falcone over the senseless killing of his parents. Although he knew that revenge was never the path to justice, old feelings of vengeance surfaced. He felt somehow that he was failing. He'd failed to protect his parents from a thug. He'd failed to protect both Rachel and Harvey Dent from the evil machinations of the Joker.

And now he was failing again. Lois Lane could very well be dead at this point. As he threw his head back and looked aimlessly into the sky, only the full, solitary moon looked back at him. Mocking him.

_The moon. It's full tonight._

His heart rate quickened and his eyes widened. _My God, could that really be the key?_ He launched himself back into the tumbler prototype and touched the video screen. He pulled up the digital images sent to him by Gordon earlier in the night, videos created by the Joker.

When he had watched both videos, he had been chiefly focused on the Joker's frame of mind and the clues he dropped as he played his insidious mind games. There had been little to divine of the location, as the room in which both videos were shot was mainly sparse. A mattress. A chair. Plain walls and bright spotlights rigged to the ceiling to simulate a television studio's lighting.

But there had been a window. He remembered it because it was the only thing that stood out on the walls. It had only passed through the frame briefly, as the Joker had swung the camera in an arc to position himself next to Lois.

The second video. That's where it had been. The Batman pulled up the video and scrolled through in fast motion, looking for the swing of the field of vision.

_There!_

He backed up and played the footage.

"—other... _distractions_ in the making." The Joker's voice was narrating from off-camera. Then the camera swung upward, catching the body of the dead man in the middle of the room, the wall behind him, and then the lights above. The Batman froze the frame where most of the wall filled the camera. Off center was a window, with a broken shade. The bottom half of a white circle could be seen from under the shade. In the initial viewings, the Batman had assumed it was a reflection from the overhead lights on the glass of the window.

But it wasn't. The lights above were strung up in rows. All of the lights would have been reflected in the glass, not just one in the middle below the broken shade.

It hadn't been the reflection of a light he had seen. It had been the moon outside.

The second video had been sent to the GPD and GCN at 9:30 that evening. The Joker wouldn't have waited between the video recording and the upload. It would have been immediate, which meant the video had been filmed sometime between 9:00 and 9:15, based on the length of the footage.

Given the visibility of the moon, that meant that the window was facing east.

He zoomed in on the window, and refined the resolution. Just more black sky. He increased the size of the frame again, and adjusted for refinement, the moon becoming clearer. On the third zoom in, he spotted something. It was faint, but it was discernable. Red light. Very faint, but there nonetheless. Red light from neon sign.

His hands started to sweat with excitement. There were no stores or gas stations on these streets with any type of neon sign, red or otherwise. For a window facing east to have a view of a red neon sign, it had to be right on the water, as far down on the road as possible. There were no other houses obstructing the view.

The Batman backed the vehicle up the length of the unnamed cross street until he was squarely on Morrow, facing east. He opened the top and climbed up onto the seat, to view the distance with his own eyes. _Down at the end. The row house where the Joker is based is all the way down at the end of Morrow, on the last cross street._ In the distance, across the river, the city of Gotham glowed with orange fires and Technicolor neon signs.

Some of which were red.

He slid back down in his seat and gunned the vehicle for the end of the street.

________________________________

The Joker walked over to the doorway out to the hallway, as aftershocks of the pain caused twitching in Lois' extremities.

Barker had folded his clothes and placed them in a neat stack on the floor. Some of the material was damp where Barker had tried to wash DJ's blood and brain matter from the Joker's clothing, after Lois had shot the kid in the face. The Joker picked up his clothes, including his shoes, and walked over to Lois' side. She lay dazed on the floor, eyes still dilated.

The Joker set his clothing down on the back of the couch, and crouched over her prostrate form. As he viewed Lois with curiosity, his eyes wandered over his own naked body. He boasted an impressive collection of scars, if he did say so himself. The cause of some of the scars had long since receded from his memory. Only the most jagged and raised jarred any recollection in him. He ran his palms over the scars on his legs, up his torso and across his chest. They fascinated him. He'd never seen them in this light before, the blue television glow pronouncing the ridges and visually carving the valleys even deeper.

His fingers trailed along the scar that rose from above his heart to just below the neck. _That_ one had been a close call _._ He smirked at the memory. _That fracas was sure a rowdy good time. Nearly did me in. As did…_

… _this._ He brought his hands up to his face. With just the tips of his fingers, he caressed the scars running from his mouth across his cheeks. He only touched them with his tongue, never with his fingers. The sensation was foreign, but not entirely unpleasant. They were his most visible of battle wounds. The scars that defined him.

Of course, they weren't the deepest ones he bore. The deepest scars couldn't be seen, locked deep within the mind of a psychopath.

He rested his fingertips along the ridges of the facial scars, on either side of his mouth. He closed his eyes, relishing the sensation of their coarse texture. Curling his index fingers into hooks, he stuck them into his mouth at the corners and pulled. Even now, all these years later, the scars still brought pain. He pulled harder, trying to rip his mouth open. Could he reopen the scars without a knife? Was brute strength enough? He gritted his teeth and yanked. Explosions of white light flashed before his eyes as pain receptors fired. The pain was intoxicating. His loins stirred, and he could feel himself start to grow hard.

He tilted his head back down to view Lois, removing his fingers from inside his mouth. He traced his saliva along the sides of her face, drawing a slick Chelsea grin on her face. That visual made him grow even harder. _Ah ha ha… now is not the time for_ that _type of fun. There's work to do. Let's see if she broke or not._

He shook his head from side to side like a wet dog, and stood up. With his bare foot, he probed Lois under her rib cage. "Lois. Lois, can you hear me?"

Her lips moved but no sound came out. The Joker reached for his pants, and drew them on carefully, guarding his arousal that hadn't yet slackened. He made a mental note to himself to ask Barker to find him some clean boxers. He certainly wouldn't want to wear the ones on Curtis, and surely both DJ's and AJ's were stained from the body's involuntary releases in the throes of death.

He bent down and cradled Lois' head with his hand. There were countless scenarios flickering through his mind, things he'd like to do with her when she healed, but first she needed to be rebuilt. He spoke to her in a low register. "Lois, the third number is four-hundred-three. Do you understand? That's the third number. Four-oh-three."

Lois made a small movement with her head.

"Say it, Lois. Four-hundred-three."

"Fooooooouuuur….. huuunnndreeed….. threeee…."

He nodded. _Good._ "Lois, the seventh number is three. Three. What's the seventh number?"

Lois' mind was a blank. She repeated what she heard. "Three." She licked her lips slowly. The Joker made a note of it and looked around for a bottle of water. He'd left them upstairs in The Room with the rest of his toys.

"I'm going to get you some water, so it's easier for you to speak, Sweet Tart. But I need you to learn some more numbers for me. The first number is two-thousand-and-three. Two-oh-oh-three."

Lois blinked slowly.

The Joker bent over to pick up his shirt. "What have you learned Lois?"

Her words were slow but steady. "Four-hundred-three. Three. Two-thousand-and-three."

"Huh," the Joker scratched his head, "What's up with all those threes? Good _girl,_ Lois. Shaggy's going to get you a Scooby snack." He buttoned the shirt and fastened the light green diamond-patterned suspenders. "The second number is one, Lois." He unrolled the argyle socks. _Seriously? Barker balls up socks like an old woman?_ He pulled them on crookedly with haste, the heel of one sock squarely over his ankle. "What's the second number, Lois?"

"One."

"Yep." He pulled on his right shoe. "The fourth number is thirty-three-hundred. Three-three-oh-oh. Jeez, more threes. Hey, that rhymes. Say it, Lois."

"Jeez more threes."

"No, three-three-oh-oh.

"Three-three-oh-ooooohhh."

He mocked her. "Oooohhhh, you're such a smart little tart. Good girl." He reached for his left shoe and nearly sliced his fingers when the spring-activated blade shot out from within the shoe's base. "Oops." He pushed the blade back in, the wriggled his foot inside, tying the laces. "The sixth number is twelve. Say it, Lois."

"Twelve."

"Uh, huh." He stood up and reached for his green vest. It had a stain of Lois' blood on the front. It gave the ensemble a bit of panache. "The fifth number is two. What's the fifth number, Lois?"

"Two."

"Yes. You're a very smart girl, aren't you? Now, I want you to think about those numbers. I'm going test you on them again. Okay?"

Lois slowly turned her eyes toward him. They were big and round, and she looked terrified. "Uh huh."

He smiled as he buttoned up his vest, noting with amusement that his hands continued to search for the second green button, despite it being lost long ago. "You know what, Lo?"

She licked her lips. "What?"

He reached down and poked the tip of her nose with his finger. "You're really cute when you're damaged."

He hopped up and skipped to the staircase. He called to her over his shoulder. "I'm going to get you some water. Just lie there until I get back. Don't jump up and try to bake a quiche or something, m'kay?"

"I won't," she called back to him, voice as distant as her mind.

The Joker took the stairs two at a time. At the top he mused that perhaps Dr. Crane's methods had merit. He still had much to play with before he knew for sure, but it seemed promising.

In the meantime, he needed his make up and Lois needed her water. And both were inside The Room.

As was Curtis' body.

The Joker opened the door, and his eyes were drawn to the dead henchman inside. The very sight of him blackened the Joker's mood. For several moments, he stood brooding with silent rage as he stared at the lifeless body. Then he worked his mouth as he dipped his head down to his shoulder, cracking his neck.

The make up and the water would have to wait. The Joker had some unfinished business with Curtis. Even if he was only a corpse.

________________________________

_(CURSAGE, DAVID)_

Vasquez watched in detachment as the laundry truck came to a halt. Smitty's eyes were bleary, but he watched the screen.

Tritt turned back at the men in the back seat. "I'll be right back." He climbed out of the car and walked over to the Nissan Maxima. Hodge opened the back passenger door, and looked around to make sure the locale was truly deserted. He then pulled out the female cop's body, and he and Tritt carried it to the side of the building, next to a fence. There was no trash compactor, so they set it down next to some discarded cardboard boxes.

Vasquez scoffed. "Yeah, that's subtle. Won't take long for stray dogs and the rats to start feeding on that bitch." Smitty shrugged. The guards went back for the body of the male cop, and laid him down next to the woman. Vasquez piped up. "You know what would be funny? They should arrange the two of them so it looks like they're doin' each other." He smiled at the prospect. "That'd be awesome."

The database program advanced to the next name. A new mug shot appeared on screen.

A new name blinked.

There was a flicker of recognition on Smitty's face. "Hey..." he leaned forward, getting his face as close to the bullet-proof glass as possible. "Hey! I know that guy! He's tied to the Joker! Hey!" He started banging on the window with his cuffed hands forcefully.

Tritt and Hodge stopped in mid-stride with the body of the Mamixa's owner suspended between them. They saw Smitty's thrashing movements as he frantically pointed to the screen, mouthing the words, "That's him!" Both men dropped the body and darted toward the side of the squad car.

The name continued to blink on the screen: CURTIS, STEVEN

________________________________

Bill gasped audibly in relief, and nearly dropped the laptop onto the floor of the limousine.

After what seemed like an eternity of scrutiny under the unrelenting gaze of the man to his right, Bill had cracked the security password the Department of Defense had established to jam the frequency he was trying to pirate.

Not exactly _pirate_. He was the one who developed the program, but it was part of the domain of the US government now. _Borrowing_ the frequency. That's all they were doing.

The confirmation code appeared in bold, 48-point font across the top of the screen.

"Mr. Luthor," Bill turned the laptop's screen toward the man who had hired him, "I've got it. It's done." As if validating his assertion, a series of beeps emitted from the laptop.

Lex reserved judgment. "We'll see." His veneer was still, like marble; unyielding and cold. "Give me a moment and we'll soon know whether this works." A cruel smile played on his lips. "Or... whether you've failed. Hand me my phone."

Bill nodded obsequiously, and gingerly placed the cell phone into the black-gloved hand of the billionaire. The phone was still connected to the laptop via the USB port.

Lex dialed a number, kept his unwavering gaze on Bill, and listened as the dial tone chirped. The other line was ringing.

________________________________

_Damn it! Pick up!_

Murdock looked down at the cell phone's display. The number he had dialed to reach the Joker was the correct one, he was sure of it. Or was he?

Paranoia was eroding his logic and his confidence. _No, that_ has _to be the right number._

But maybe it wasn't. Maybe he switched the last two digits. _Hell, Joe, how do you know it's just the last two digits? Maybe you've got the whole damned thing wrong!_

He breathed deeply and shut his eyes. _Pull it together, man. Your life depends on it. Try the number one more time, and if that doesn't work, switch the last two digits. You've got to warn the Joker to move quickly, or this is going to end very, very badly for all of us._

Murdock opened his eyes. He listened for footfalls in the stairway of the MCU, but heard nothing.

He dialed the Joker's number one more time.

________________________________

The Joker dipped his chin to his chest and stood with his feet in a wide stance. He regarded the body of his traitorous henchman with venom. Suddenly jarring himself from his position, he went to the bag on the floor, which still had many of his favorite toys. He pulled out a particularly shiny one, and began circling Curtis' body like a shark.

He changed direction quickly, shifting on the balls of his feet like a fighter ready for the bell. He wished that Curtis were still alive, so he could savor the coward's pleas for mercy and shrieks of agony like honey on his tongue.

_Such vile insolence._

Were he the lowlife that the corpse had been, he'd have spat on him.

_Detestable bottom-feeding thug._

The man not only defiled his game with the Batman, by changing the words he'd crafted to taunt Lois Lane on the _Metropolis Live_ website…

_I could cut you and bleed you and rip you apart and feed you to the rats._

…but he'd also had the unthinkable temerity to challenge the Joker for dominance in his own base…

_The cretin deserves the most humiliating of assaults. His death was too good for him. Far too fast._

…and had challenged him in front of _her._ Fury wasn't a potent enough word for the surge of emotion he felt.

The Joker held a bowie knife in his hand, and it felt comfortable there. It was its rightful place. The handle belonged cradled in his palm, but the blade belonged inside of Curtis' mouth. Perhaps he'd skin the man in one piece, and leave the filleted flesh in the Goodwill drop box by the YMCA.

Or maybe he'd crush the bastard's skull with a baseball bat. It could bring him tremendous pleasure to swing at it like a pinata.

The hunting knife was still lodged in the base of Curtis' skull, protruding from the back of his throat like a second tongue. The Joker liked having that knife at his disposal, but he liked it even better in Curtis' head.

The Joker decided he'd have to settle for using the corpse for a Halloween Jack O'Lantern. Curtis lay shirtless on his stomach, the vile tattoo tracking his rapes staring up at the Joker. The Joker tilted his head. _Yeah, like a pumpkin. I'll carve up a face in his back and pull out all his insides through the "mouth"._ That brought him a smile.

As he knelt down to make the first cut, he heard a chirping noise come from inside his vest. It was a ring he'd never heard before. It rang again. And a third time.

The Joker let the knife clatter to the floor in annoyance, and he reached inside his vest. There were two cell phones in the inside pockets. Two cell phones that he had very, very good reason for keeping. He pulled out the one that was ringing and looked at it, cocking his head to the side.

 _Well, isn't_ this _an in-ter-esssss-ting little interruption._

He opened the phone and raised it to his ear, clearing his throat in an exaggerated show of disdain. "This had better be good."

There was a moment's pause on the other end. "I was beginning to wonder if I was ever going to reach you."

The Joker hesitated, and the corners of his mouth drew downward. His eyes narrowed. He didn't like it when callers didn't identify themselves. He liked it even less when they tried to draw him into a game of their own device, as the insolent was doing on the other end of the line. The Joker certainly enjoyed doing it to others, but he had no tolerance for being the unwitting target of such a prank. "What's this about?" He practically spat the words.

"A collaboration toward a common goal."

The Joker seethed with anger. This game wasn't funny at all. He detested being kept in the dark, and he would not stand for being the butt of _anyone's_ joke. The timbre of his voice dropped menacingly: "Who the _fuck_ is this?"

He could hear amused laughter on the other end. "My name is Lex Luthor, and I'd advise you not to talk to me in that tone again."

The Joker was stunned into silence. He blinked in disbelief.

_What?_

He was incredulous that anyone would dare talk to him in such a manner... let alone do so after breaching his privacy.

_What?_

This was beyond unacceptable. It was beyond unforgivable. It was unthinkable.

Then, somewhere in his mind, a switch flipped, and the venomous juices began to flow.

_Soooo... you want to play, hmmm? C'mon, then. Let's play, fucker._

This could end up being immensely amusing after all.

A dark smile returned to his face, and he bounced on his feet. A new game to play. A wonderful new game. What physical pain he could no longer inflict on Curtis for his unabashed insolence, he now longed to inflict somehow on this idiot for the same.

"All right then, Mr. Luthor. Speak. I'm listening."

________________________________

. . . . . . .

Author's Notes for "Men of Wicked Ways"

. . . . . . .

_Waaaaay back in Chapter 10, "So She IS a Screamer", Lois surveys The Room for the first time. One of the things she notes was the window with the broken shade. I've been waiting a heck of a long time to bring that detail full circle, but I was finally able to make it serve its purpose: it would be the clue to lead the Batman to the Joker's location. Now the next question is what happens when he gets there..._

_-4ofCups, 2009.08.31_

 

 


	44. Signature of a Madman

*** SIGNATURE OF A MADMAN ***

**Chapter 44**

**. . . . . . .**

A near-deafening explosion detonated, shaking the walls of Arkham Asylum.

Dr. Crane's eyes snapped open as the reverberations jarred him from his sleep, rattling through his body as if he were standing next to a freight train. The ruckus startled him enough to send him shooting bolt upright into the middle of his room. He fought to steady himself on his feet, his balance not yet centered as the haze of REM sleep still clung to his sharpening senses.

Outside in the corridors of Arkham, the fire alarms sounded. Thankfully, it wasn't a constant clanging of an archaic metallic alarm bell, but the sound of a horn crescendoing, repeating its cadence every few seconds. With detached amusement, Dr. Crane wondered how many paranoid schizophrenics would be panicked enough to try to smash their heads into their cell doors, in the frantic throes of suicidal urges as a result of the alarm. Through the window of the door, swirling red lights of the fire alarm could be seen spinning in the darkened hallway, casting the hospital walls in a cupreous ambience even more disconcerting than its usual washed out neutral shade of institutional indifference.

A pre-recorded woman's voice came over the speaker system: _"Attention: please proceed in a calm fashion to the nearest fire exit."_ There was a dissonant irony to the message; the actress had imbued her tone with a hint of mirth, a stark contrast to the gravity the message should have carried. Having once served as the administrator of the asylum, Jonathan Crane knew what safety precautions had been mandated by the city for a facility of this size, should a structural deficiency be detected or an emergency arise that would threaten the safety of the patients. Consequently, he knew what was about to happen, as the safety protocols were executed by automation. He started the mental countdown in his head.

He strained to focus his eyes on the door, searching for the location of the handle. He peered at the sliver of pulsating red light penetrating the space between the doorframe and the door, looking for the interruption by a block-like shadow indicating that the steel lock was engaged. It was, but wouldn't be for long. He counted backwards aloud: "Three… two… one…"

The echo of steel bolts retracting in unison reverberated down the hallways, as every cell door in the asylum simultaneously unlocked. He fumbled for his glasses near the bed, and walked over to the door to test the handle. With the safety locks disengaged, the door opened without resistance.

He poked his head out into the hallway. Orderlies and nurses were moving quickly along the length of the hall, opening the doors to all the cells to instruct the inmates to move out into the corridors. Some of the patients were cautiously looking out of their rooms, more afraid of stepping out of the familiarity of their cells than of the event that had precipitated the alarms in the first place. Arkham's residents didn't necessarily register threats with the same measure of urgency as did those not deemed criminally insane.

Jonathan put his shoes on and walked with purpose out into the hallway. He spotted Corelle approaching, a matronly nurse who had been with Arkham since before he'd served as administrator. He knew that he still carried a residual trace of authority with her. "What's going on? That sounded like an explosion." His voice bore no trace of emotion, neither fear nor curiosity. He was merely collecting empirical data. For a man whose only solace was found in the cold facts of science, old habits died hard.

Corelle was distracted, craning her neck to look over his shoulder at a hysterical patient behind him who was crying. "It _was_ an explosion." She looked Dr. Crane in the face and hesitated, as if weighing the consequences of revealing more. He met her eyes, unblinking, still able to wield a quiet command of presence. She folded under his projection of authority, as he knew she would. "The Joker has been setting off explosions all over Gotham tonight. We suspected a bomb would eventually hit Arkham, and sure enough, he hit the east wing. The infirmary and all the doctors' offices are gone. Just, _gone._ We need to get everyone out of the asylum as quickly as possible."

Perhaps if Corelle hadn't been preoccupied with the safety of the other patients, she would have seen it.

Perhaps if she'd had a more trained eye, she would have spotted it in his face. But she didn't.

As she advanced down the hallway to alert other patients of the facility's evacuation, Dr. Crane did something that almost no one in the history of Arkham Asylum had ever seen: he flinched.

Not at the implication of the danger the hospital was in at the whims of a vengeful ex-patient, nor at the revelation that the attack on the entire city of Gotham left no place safe.

It was _the name_ that made him flinch: Joker.

His mind flooded with images of their encounter, in Jonathan's very room. Dr. Crane's insides twisted, a sensation to which he was not accustomed. There were feelings associated with the recollection, which was unusual; Dr. Crane didn't store his memories encoded with feelings. But these memories most certainly had emotional associations. He despised the power those feelings held over him: fear, with strong undercurrents of self-reproach. Mostly fear.

For in the course of their encounter, Dr. Crane had done something… ill-advised to the Joker.

Crane hadn't noticed that both his fists were clenching the sides of his pants. As he replayed their interaction in his head, his grip grew tighter still, until his knuckles had blanched...

________________________________

When Dr. Crane heard the lock to his cell door retract, he hadn't been asleep. He'd been staring at the ceiling, losing a battle with insomnia, so the interruption momentarily served as a welcomed diversion from his own frustrated boredom. He watched as someone pushed the door open with marked reservation.

An orderly sheepishly stuck his head in. "Uh, Doc—Doctor Crane?" The dim lighting from the hallway outlined his silhouette in black in the doorway, casting his face in shadows.

Crane raised himself up onto his elbow, still reclining on his bed. "What is this about?" He'd known that the orderlies would occasionally sneak into the cells of the inmates and torment them to pass the time, in whatever fashion was likely to be as psychologically damaging to the patient as possible. But this orderly had no air of dominance or mischief about him. It was almost as though he were afraid of something.

"There's, uh… someone who wants to talk—" his words were cut short as a man brushed by him gruffly, knocking him forward by the shoulders. This second figure stopped just inside of the room. He, too, was cast in shadows, but his silhouette was much taller and lankier than the orderly. Lanky, but strong, judging from the shadows on the corded forearms.

"Hiya, Doc."

Crane could see the man's fingers drum on his thigh, as he sought an outlet for his pent-up energy. There was something disconcerting about the man's stance. His feet were planted wide apart, and his head appeared to be bowed, or perhaps tipped forward. Crane didn't recognize the man's shape from the other male patients who were usually given license to roam in the common areas under light supervision. That meant whoever this man was, he was a high-risk patient, whose cell was in the maximum security hall. Someone who didn't _play well_ with others.

"I, uh… I just wanted to, um, pick your _brain_ for a little while." There was a tinny-sounding chuckle, followed by a curious noise; the faint smacking sound of someone opening his mouth right after licking his lips.

Dawning recognition distilled in Crane's mind. _Oh._ That _man. The Joker._

Crane instinctively sat straight up in bed and scooted himself backward until his back was against the wall. His visitor had kept the asylum on pins and needles since his arrival. Crane had only seen him on two occasions, both times being escorted in a straight jacket by a crew of orderlies. And yet, now he was in Crane's cell, escorted by _one_ orderly, who was clearly terrified of him.

The Joker wasn't wearing a straight jacket, either.

"What was your name again?" The Joker turned his head toward the orderly.

"Julio." The orderly nervously looked down the hallway, scanning for signs of others.

"Thanks, Ramone," the Joker answered. "Close the door behind you, and don't open it up until I knock four times. _Four._ Got it? If you hear only three, you don't open the door."

Julio nodded enthusiastically. "Four knocks, and I open the door."

"Right." The Joker waved him off with a hand. "Off you go, Pepe."

Crane wasn't sure if the Joker were purposely stating the wrong name to get under Julio's skin, or if he truly were as deranged as rumors purported, and the man had no room to recall minutiae like people's names.

Julio closed the door behind him, and the bolt turned in the lock. Silently, a twinge of panic strummed the cords of Dr. Crane's consciousness, as he realized that he was locked – _locked_ – in a twelve-by-fourteen-foot room with the Joker. And no means of defense.

The Joker continued to tap his fingers on his leg, but he hadn't moved further into the room. He stood mute, remaining in the shadows by the door.

Crane cleared his throat. "What do you want?"

His visitor took a step forward into the shaft of dim light cascading through the door's window. From the side, the light cast deep shadows along the ridges of his scarred face, making the deformation extending from his mouth all the more pronounced. "I want you to teach me."

Crane stared, not sure he'd understood what he'd heard. "Excuse me? I don't understand what you mean."

The Joker walked into the middle of the room. "I want you to teach me how to damage someone's mind."

From somewhere in the depths of Crane's psyche, a voice piped up. The voice was that of a familiar acquaintance who'd been gone too long: Scarecrow. _Now you're talkin'._ Crane smiled. "Of course. What type of damage are you looking to inflict?" Dr. Crane's weakness was pride: he couldn't pass up the opportunity to bask in the recognition of his past accomplishments, no matter how antisocial the justice system had deemed them to be.

The Joker shifted on his feet, with what appeared to be either superfluous energy, or perhaps enthusiasm. "I don't want to turn someone into a _tur_ nip-ah, or some blabbering idiot. I want to know how to… how to break someone."

Crane sought clarification. "You want to break their will to live?"

"No, not that." The Joker invited himself onto the end of Crane's bed, asserting a familiarity of physical proximity that Crane was not at all comfortable with. The doctor had deduced from the video clips he'd seen of the clown on television that the man had boundary issues and no regard for others' personal space. This violation on his bed confirmed it. As the Joker sat down and crossed his legs Indian-style, in a premature assumption of casual acquaintance, Crane scrambled to draw his feet back so the Joker wouldn't pin them under his weight while they were under the covers.

The Joker qualified his curiosity: "I want to know how to break them in a way that I can control them. You know, they, ah, they go about their normal lives, but I'm the one who" (smack) "is actually calling the shots."

Crane slowly nodded. "Mind control."

The Joker smirked. "I'm a pretty persuasive guy as it is, but I'm looking to, uh, take it to the next level, if you know what I mean." He leaned forward toward Crane. "You know what I mean?"

Crane recoiled as a cloud of foul breath drifted his way. "Yes, I believe I do." He tried to hold his breath.

"So, can you help me, Doc?"

"Of course." Crane reached down and put on his glasses, a subconscious motion that took him back to his days of practicing psychiatry.

The Joker tilted his head. "What'd you do that for?" There was amusement in his voice. "It's dark in here. What are you hoping to see better?"

Crane hesitated, not realizing the implication of his action. "When I dispense professional advice, I like to have my glasses on."

The Joker shook his head, smiling. "Nah, that's not it." He pointed at Crane with emphasis. "You wanted a better look, didn't you? You wanted to see 'em."

Reflexively, Crane's eyes went to the scars. "No, that's not why—"

Without warning, the Joker was upon him. He lunged and gripped Crane's skull in a hold that was like a vice. "You, uh, want to hear how I got these scars, Doc?"

Crane's skull was being pressed into the cement wall behind him, and pain radiated through his body. "No, no thank you. I'd rather tell you what you want to know."

The Joker rolled his eyes in consideration for a moment. "Mmmm, okay. Maybe I'll tell you some other time." He rolled off his prey, and lay himself down next to the doctor on the twin-sized bed. "Scootch over there, Doc." With a swift shove, the Joker sent Crane sprawling onto the floor, while he made himself comfortable in the bed. He folded his arms back to support his head, looking up at the ceiling. "So, tell me how I do this."

Crane stumbled to his feet in indignation. "And what do I get in return for offering you my help?"

The Joker's reply was casual, but succinct. "You get to keep breathing."

Crane couldn't argue with the merits of that. He crossed his arms over his chest in a futile attempt to convey authority, and leaned against the far wall, putting as much distance between himself and the clown as was possible. "Psychotropic drugs are the most effective way to modify behavior long-term. Of course, it's helpful if they're administered on a regular—"

"No," the Joker cut him off curtly, "I don't want to use drugs. I want to use trauma." (smack) "Good, old-fashioned, no-frills trauma. I want you to teach me how to terrorize someone to the point where I can mold their behavior. They'd still be, you know, _themselves,_ but there would be little doses of 'me' in there as well." He smiled at the prospect.

Crane considered. "It would take more than just one devastating event. You'd have to systematically attack their psyche in stages."

"That's what I figured. I need you to teach me the 'how' part of it-ah."

Crane nodded, as the fiendish voice of Scarecrow echoed in his brain. _Let's break some people. Let's break them so badly that even_ you, _Jonathan, would be challenged in trying to put them back together again._

 _Yes,_ Dr. Crane replied in his head. _Let's._

He began his discourse. "The trauma would have to take place over the course of several hours. Six, at the very least. It's imperative that you isolate them. Take them to a place they don't know. You need to eradicate any trace of familiarity or comfort. It's best to focus your attention on one subject at a time. There are too many factors you can't control when there's more than one person."

"One," the Joker repeated.

"You want to start off by frightening your subject, severely. If your subject is a man, attack him physically, or, at the very least, make bankable threats to his physical safety. You can do the same to a woman, but threats to her sexual safety are usually more effective, unless she's a prostitute, or someone working in the sex industry. In cases like that, you need to use threats of physical violence to jolt them, because it's likely that extended sexual abuse was what drove them into their vocations in the first place, and they'll have psychological defenses in place that would diffuse any type of sexual attack."

"Mmmm hmmmm," the Joker nodded, looking up at the ceiling, "keep going."

"You want visible evidence of your power in your initial attack. Make sure they can see the aftermath of someone you've already harmed. Perhaps someone cowering in a corner of the room."

"Or dead. I like dead much better."

"That would be very effective. The subject needs to understand that you have no boundaries, that you're willing to inflict the worst sort of terror and pain possible. You launch the attack to the point that when you draw back, their gratitude for the reprieve will open up their minds to emotional attacks."

"Eeeeeee-moh-shun-uhl," the Joker drew out the word.

"Bruise their ego. Insult their looks, make fun of their career, whatever you choose. There are so many possibilities." Dr. Crane smiled as he drifted off into a moment of reverie, thinking about the damage he himself was able to inflict on the patients in this very institution.

The Joker took note of his mental hiatus. He smiled in curiosity. "Tell me, Doc. I want to hear about themmmm."

And he did. For over an hour, Dr. Crane recounted the stories of men and women whose lives he'd shattered using psychological torment, before even introducing pharmaceuticals into their systems. He shared with the Joker strategies and case studies, ways to break a person down. It involved repeatedly abusing the subject, building up a modicum of trust, and then smashing it to pieces. Crane endorsed and cited varying degrees of emotional attacks. Psychological attacks, using shame and guilt as weapons. The attacker should also engage in inexplicable displays of mercy or tenderness for no reason, and subsequently exact punishing actions for seemingly good behavior. The subversion of logic was key.

The doctor pointed out that the conditioning should also involve sleep deprivation, a defense critical to the body repairing itself physically and psychologically. It should be repeatedly illustrated how isolated the subject is, without any hope for rescue or reunion with the outside world. The final stage of drawing the subject into a state of trust should involve an act that was intrinsically intimate; a kiss, an embrace, some show evidencing that the tormentor had imbued as much trust in his subject as he was requiring in return.

The mind could only take so much before it caves in completely from desperation and terror. Crane explained that the conditioning should be brought full circle, with one last excruciating physical assault, something so painful that the body's weakened defenses can't cope without slipping into an altered mental state. It would retain only the most recent instructions, with everything else receding into the background.

"And that," Crane concluded, "is how I would break a subject by trauma."

The Joker steepled his fingers on his chest. "And they'd stay broken?"

The doctor nodded. "Unless you had someone skilled enough in psychiatry to be able to bring them out of it. But it would take time, and the right treatment."

"Could you do it?"

Crane pursed his lips. "Possibly. It depends entirely on the strength of character of the subject before the trauma was induced, and the extent of damage wrought on them in the process."

Over the course of Dr. Crane's revelations, he had been watching the Joker with a mixture of fascination and repulsion. The clown was an animated man who gestured a lot when he spoke, expressing the whims and psychoses of his own mind. But he was also vulgar and pedestrian, soiling the doctor's bed with body odor and Christ knew what he was picking out of his teeth and wiping on the sheets. It was angering Crane. It was disrespectful, and it was revolting.

And it made Dr. Crane want to say something. Something he knew that he shouldn't say.

Something that _no one_ knew but him.

Something that would likely anger the Joker as much as the Joker was angering him. His rational side cautioned him against speaking up, but Scarecrow had other ideas. _Say it. Say it, Jonathan. Put him in his place. You know you want to._

An hour and a half had passed. Only now did the Joker stretch his arms and yawn loudly. "I gotta get back into my own bed. The orderlies are probably expecting to come to my room to get their nightly kicks from beating me, and I wouldn't want to disappoint them-ah by not being there." He sat up, and sniffled loudly. "I think I'm getting a cold." He reached down to pull up Crane's bed sheet, and blew his nose in it. "Ah, that's better." He blew again. Crane's jaw dropped in disgust.

As the Joker crossed the room for the door, Crane's outrage finally surfaced, fueled by an alter ego that sought to bring the clown down a notch. _Say it, Jonathan. Say it. Tell him what you know._

"Yeah, so, uh… thanks for all your instruction, there, Doc. Very helpful. I plan on putting it to good use."

"You…" Dr. Crane hesitated, "you know you can't use those techniques on _him._ They won't work on him." He adjusted his glasses. "On the Batman."

The Joker turned back to Crane from the door. He glared for a moment before answering. "I. Know. Tha _t_." He worked his mouth in annoyance. "I never said that I wanted to use your advice on _him,_ did I?" He narrowed his eyes and a smirk curled one side of his horribly misshapen mouth. "I guess if you had any value as a psychiatric doctor, you would have picked up on that." He turned back to the door and sniffed loudly. "Maybe you need to take a refresher's correspondent course in psychology. I'll see if I can put your name on a mailing list for Gotham Vocational Night School." He snickered at his own remark.

And that was the proverbial line that was crossed.

Dr. Crane should have bitten his tongue, and allowed the interloper to leave without another word. He _should_ have known better than to kick at a coiled viper. He _did_ know better.

But Scarecrow didn't care. And it was Scarecrow who spoke up. _If you won't say it, then I will, Jonathan._

And he did.

"I remember you."

The Joker's back was to him, his face looking out the door's window out into the hallway. He didn't reply. He didn't move, either. He was completely still. Unnervingly so.

Crane repeated himself. "Yes, I do. I remember you."

Crane's eyes were drawn to the Joker's right hand. He was rhythmically tapping his leg. This time, it wasn't from unchanneled energy. It was a tic. A physical outlet for a man who was struggling psychologically with something that was making him very angry.

"You… you saw me on the teeee veeeee, didn't you?" His voice had lost its mocking high-pitched tone. It was lower in register, and in decibel.

"No, I _remember_ you." Crane stood up taller, emboldened by his own confession. "I was there, when they brought you in."

Silence.

Only the sound of the Joker's fingers quietly but insistently tapping his leg could be heard. He drew his breath in slowly, looking to qualify the accusation. "When they brought me… to Arkham last year…" It wasn't a question. It was a leading statement. A warning, implying that Crane was best served not to say anything to the contrary.

But he did.

"No, not Arkham." Scarecrow was urging Jonathan onward. _Say it, Jonathan. Tell him._ "When they brought you in for observation. After you had been—"

His words halted as the Joker slowly looked backward over his shoulder at him, turning only his head. The light through the door's window once again cast his facial scars in horrific magnified dimensions. His eyes were black with warning.

Crane didn't heed it. He raised his finger, and pointed at the Joker's face. "After _that_ happened. I was in the observation deck, a new medical student myself, participating in an honors exchange program with the University of Metropolis. _That's_ where it happened, in Metropolis. I was there when they brought in a mangled kid—"

There was a crack. And another one. The Joker was cracking his neck. Releasing tension, Crane noted. Or he was loosening it up so he'd be able to move easier when delivering physical retribution for the effrontery. The Joker raised his fist to the door. He rhythmically banged three times in a slow cadence next to the window. He positioned his hand for the fourth knock, but instead dropped it at his side, exhaling dramatically.

The Joker turned to face Crane. "You know, Doc," the tinny-sounding clown quality had returned to his voice, "you really should have shut your trap while you had the chance."

Crane felt the bravado drain from him. He wasn't sure where Scarecrow had gone, but he was now left holding the bag. He swallowed and backed himself into the corner, holding up his hands in defense. The Joker took no notice of it. "You will never repeat what you just said. To anyone. _Ever_. Will you?"

Crane's eyes grew wide. "Orderly! Julio! Open the door and call for security!"

"Oh," (smack) "Julio's not going to help you. He's not opening the door unless I want him to."

"Julio! Call for help!" His words were staccato with panic.

The Joker advanced on Crane until their faces were merely inches apart. "You want to fuck with me, Doc? Hmmmmm?"

Crane repeatedly opened and closed his mouth, words failing him. He looked like a fish out of water, gasping for a drink.

"Do you know what Julio _thinks_ I'm in here doing to you?" He raised his eyebrows suggestively. "Can you draw _that_ conclusion, with your limited perceptive abilities, _Johnny_?"

With alarming speed, the Joker brought his hand up to the back of Crane's neck. "Let's give 'em all something to talk about, shall we?" He threw his own head back in a cackle, manhandled Crane and threw him onto the bed. He jumped onto the smaller man with the full length of his body. In the bawdiest of tones, he yelled, "C'mon, baby, you know that's just how I like it! I'm goin' balls-deep with the next thrust!"

________________________________

Standing in a suspended state of remembrance, Crane was barely aware of the inmates around him being ushered out of the hospital as the fire alarms continued to sound. Shame and anger overtook him. The Joker hadn't raped him, but he'd purposely left physical marks to back up all the verbal exclamations proclaiming his sexual dominance that he'd shouted for Julio and neighboring cells to hear.

Though no doctor had ever approached Crane about the salacious rumors, several nurses had looked on him with pity or disgust from that night on. Not only had he fallen from grace, from administrator to patient within his own asylum, he was also purportedly the Joker's only rape victim. He was humiliated. Crane couldn't even refute the rumors, when he'd hear them whispered in the common rooms. To defend himself would mean to share what he knew about the Joker's past.

That was a mistake he vowed never to make again.

As the patients filed out of the hospital in a random, frantic scattering, Crane knew that there was now nothing keeping him safe from the Joker. The proverbial defenses of Arkham's walls had been destroyed. Many of the patients would likely make a break from hospital grounds, and Crane decided he would be one of them. He needed to disappear so the Joker could never find him again.

________________________________

Lois lay on her back on the floor, moving her lips. No sound passed over them. She was silently reciting what the Joker had told her.

Her eyes were on the ceiling, focused on nothing in particular. He'd given her an assignment. She was supposed to remember the numbers. He wanted her to remember them… for a game. _Two… Twelve…_

The Joker had told her that they would be playing lots of games together. Just the two of them. It would be their secret – that was his promise. No one would ever understand her like he did. He was the only one who could look out for her. He'd told her so.

And then the blinding stab had been driven into the base of her skull, blotting from her cognizance most of what had transpired before that. She remembered feeling gratitude, and safety. A fearful respect for the Joker… and a sense of trust...

_Three…_

She became more aware of her body on the floor, and the uncomfortable sensation of physical numbness. She didn't move, or even adjust herself. Instead she lay patiently, in considerable discomfort.

He hadn't told her she could move yet. It wasn't a part of the game.

________________________________

. . . . . . .

Author's Notes for "Signature of a Madman"

. . . . . . .

_The Joker understood that Dr. Crane's weakness was his ego. What better way to destroy a man's ego than to reduce him to a victim of sexual assault in the eyes of those who were once his subordinates? Although the Joker has a preference for using knives to destroy people, he's just as adept at shredding them to ribbons with cruel words and insidious innuendos._

_Considering the treatment he was subjected to at Arkham, I could see the Joker targeting the wing of the doctors' offices specifically. Not only would it send a very cogent message to the establishment, he knew it would result in a mandatory evacuation... meaning more crazies out there on the loose. Ergo, more chaos._

_-4ofCups, 2009.10.19_

 

 


	45. Deal with the Devil

*** DEAL WITH THE DEVIL ***

**Chapter 45**

**. . . . . . .**

After a second pistol whip to the face, Fred Grimes sputtered blood.

Lundgren had threatened the life of Sue, his fellow air traffic controller and colleague of eight years. Seeing her hysterical expression, Fred had yelled an obscenity at the large man in the army green jacket with the gun.

That's when the second blow had come.

Blood ran down Fred's chin from a tooth that had been knocked out. To his horror, he watched Lundgren raise his gun to the back of Sue's head. Fred realized that if he refused to give in to the terrorists' demands, he'd see Sue's brainpan splattered all over the console.

Fred held her life in his hands. It was too great a burden to overlook, and he spoke up.

"Concourse I, Gate Seventeen." It was the location of a 747-400 that had just flown in from Madrid, and was fully fueled for the next morning's route. Fred bowed his head in regret, though he felt they'd left him no choice. Defeat hung in the air.

"I-Seventeen, you say?" Lundgren nodded in the direction of Hobbs and Lucas. They opened a bag and pulled out rolls of silver duct tape and scissors. "That's what we needed to know. I want all radio transmissions switched off. Do it!"

Heads nodded in unison, and the group of air traffic controllers fumbled for the microphone switches at their respective console stations.

"Everyone's going to huddle together in the middle of the room. Now: everyone on your hands and knees. Get down, and start crawling!"

An older man unfastened his headset, draped it around his neck turned from the console. "There are too many lives depending on us to do our jobs. We can't abandon our stations!"

Lucas tipped his head in annoyance. "Sure you can." He pulled out a Glock shot two bullets into the man's chest. Three of the women in the room screamed, and one of the men crossed himself and started reciting the Lord's Prayer. Lucas swept the room with a cursory look. "C'mon, people, move!"

Shaken, the remaining hostages crawled to the middle of the room like dogs. Lundgren barked his order: "Now, everyone form a circle. Sit facing outward. Hook elbows with the people sitting on both sides of you."

Cupping the side of his mouth, Fred slid off his chair onto his knees. "Not you!" Lundgren shouted. "Get back in your chair!" Fred complied, his face registering confusion.

With their arms linked, each hostage had their wrists and ankles bound with duct tape. Their mouths were covered, stifling sobs and pleas for mercy. Hobbs and Lucas ignored them, continuing to bind everyone until they were immobile in the middle of the room.

Lundgren approached Fred with his gun drawn. "Want me to shoot another one of your colleagues? Huh?"

"God, no! No! I'll do what you want, just don't hurt anyone else." He eyed the body of his eldest friend, slumped onto the floor. Tears formed in Fred's eyes. "Don't hurt anyone else."

"I won't," Lundgren pointed his gun at the radar screen, "if you tell me which of those planes the governor is on."

Fred closed his eyes and choked back a cry of anguish. He looked at the screen, searching for the mark. "Here," he pointed, "American Airlines flight Sixteen-Seventy-Four, from LAX to GIA. It's just outside of Gotham now."

Lundgren tipped his head. "Make it fly… _here."_ Fred followed the line of the gun to a glyph marking a Delta plane flying up to Gotham from Miami.

Fred shook his head, and wrinkled his brow. "But that's another plane!"

Lundgren nodded. "That's the idea. Make 'em hit each other. We want a mid-air collision." The thug smiled with malice.

"For the love of God! What's wrong with you people?"

Hobbes piped up. "No governor, no executive order to call in the National Guard."

Lundgren jammed the barrel of his handgun under Fred's chin. "Do it, or I'll kill _two_ of your colleagues. C'mon, give the Joker a nice mid-air collision. He likes explosions. The bigger, the better."

________________________________

The Joker ran his tongue along his lips in anticipation. He genuinely wanted to hear what type of excuse the bombastic asshole on the other end of the line was going to offer up for interrupting his fun.

"I'm going to speak to you directly… Joker." Lex curled his lips in amusement at saying the name. It sounded so preposterous to address the madman directly with it. "I wouldn't have gone through the considerable effort of contacting you if I didn't have a proposition that was worth your while."

The Joker circled Curtis' body on the floor, kicking at it as he walked. "So," he held the cell phone away from his ear, eyeing it suspiciously, before speaking again, "just how _did_ you contact me?"

"You're speaking to me on Lois Lane's cell phone. That's the one I called."

The Joker hesitated. "I turned it off." He was absolutely certain he had. He'd left the taunting message for the Batman to hear, knowing that the police would try to contact Lois' cell phone, and subsequently inform the Batman of the Joker's message once it became police evidence. He nodded in confirmation. "It was. _Off._ "

"Yes, it was. However, I have resources at my disposal that allow for a route around a minor obstacle like that."

The Joker's ears pricked up. "Oh, yeah? Like what?" That might be a great tool to have, if he wanted to prank call judges or police commissioners in the middle of the night.

"It's technology not on the market in the private sector. Only limited government bodies have access to it." Lex eyed Bill who was still sitting next to him in the limousine. Bill had pioneered the software that used restricted microwave frequencies with satellite signals to override the circuitry of an inactive cell phone, for the purpose of emergency communication in life-threatening situations. The US government commissioned its development to assist in forewarning its military generals deep in enemy territory to abort an ambush, when all other communication failed. Its function was soon expanded to help pinpoint hostiles, when paired with GPS technology. If a cell phone were off, its location couldn't be determined geographically; once a circuit reboot was forced, the phone became active and traceable. It was used by the CIA and Special Ops, particularly when ambushing slippery third-world dictators or juntas with genocidal agendas.

The Joker kicked Curtis' corpse in the crotch to amuse himself. "So you decided to use this, uh, this special technology, to call Lois Lane's cell phone."

"Yes, to reach you. I understand that she is a… _guest_ of yours at the moment. You are the one I wanted to reach. I am a business man. You have something that I want. In exchange, I can give you something that you need."

The Joker laughed like a braying donkey. "Have you been watching the news?" (smack) "I mean, the rest of the coverage besides the videos I recorded. Gotham is burning. I've brought this city to its knees. I don't need _anything,_ Max."

Lex's voice frosted over. "It's _Lex._ "

The Joker smirked. "I know it is." He walked over to Curtis' severed ear on the floor and stepped on it. "So what do you want from me? Just who are you, anyway?" He began pacing the room again.

"I live in Metropolis, and run LexCorp. I also own several other corporations based throughout North and South America, Europe, Asia and Australia. My team is currently expanding into East Africa and Antarctica. My industries run the gamut from biotech firms to non-profit charities." Which, Lex failed to mention, were fronts for money laundering in the Cayman Islands.

The Joker whistled in mock admiration. "Well, it sounds like you already own the world. Sounds like you don't need anything from me."

"Actually, I do. I need Lois Lane."

The Joker stopped in his tracks. "Um… come again?"

"I need Lois Lane. Time is really of the essence, so I need her immediately."

_And they call_ me _a clown._ The Joker scoffed. "You're telling me that _you –_ a guy who's probably got millions—"

"Billions," Lex corrected.

"My bad, Tex."

"My name is L—"

"So you're some billionaire businessman from Metropolis, who owns crap all over the world and has access to people who know nifty cell phone tricks" (smack) "and you're calling me to tell me that you want the reporter that _I_ currently have as my _guest?_ "

"Yes."

"No." The Joker worked his mouth. "No, you can't have her. She's _mine._ Go find yourself another reporter."

Lex had anticipated resistance. "There's a specific—"

"You just want her because you can't _have_ her. You billionaires get bored so easily, don't you? You start hunting for things you can't have, just to see if you can get them. We've got a billionaire here in Gotham, and whenever he gets bored, some broker of hotel real estate in Dubai gets to eat like a king for the rest of his life. No, I'm not letting you _have_ her, just so you can say that you _got_ her from me. You want her just for the, ah, the sport of _getting_ her."

"No, you're gravely mistaken."

"Am? I?" The Joker underscored each word by stomping on Curtis' hand, crushing the bones.

"Hear me out: I don't want to take Lois _from_ you. I want to _borrow_ her. That's all. She never has to leave your side. But I need her tonight. The sooner the better."

"Tonight," the Joker repeated, derision evident in his tone. "You want to _borrow_ her, _tonight_. Like a library book." He had to admit that his curiosity was piqued. "Why?"

"Because I have a score to settle with an enemy, and need her to do it."

_Funny coincidence, that; I need her for the same reason._ "Why?" Oh, this could be fun, to speculate on all the sordid uses for Lois Lane. He grinned at the prospects. "You want to film yourself banging her, and send the video to her boyfriend, who just happens to be your sworn enemy?"

Lex clenched his jaw. The Joker had no idea how close he'd just come to the mark. There was only one way that Lex could make his point. He took the gamble: "What lengths would you go to, to reengage the Batman? To draw him out of banishment?"

The Joker went silent, and the corners of his mouth dropped. "What?"

"As I said at the onset of our call, we have a common goal. You have a rival that you wish to take down, as do I. I can help you achieve that, and you can help me, as well."

The Joker's mood blackened. "I don't need anyone's help-ah."

"On the contrary, you do. I understand betrayal. I understand what it feels like to have an equal not live up to expectations. To break trust and unspoken understanding of the mutual level of greatness you share."

"I said I don't need—"

Lex interrupted the Joker. "Yes, you do. Before you were sent to Arkham, you tested the Batman in a way that no one else had. And he pushed you to your limits as well. You made him, as much as he made you. And then, he just disappeared. You've got no one to engage in your games."

The Joker shifted uncomfortably from one foot to the other. This stranger had a familiarity with his own thoughts better than any doctor at Arkham had ever come close to approaching. The Joker refuted the claim. "I _am_ going to draw him out. I'm burning this fucking city to the ground. He'll come out to play."

"Yes, I think he _will",_ Lex conceded, "but you'll never _beat_ him. You've tried. You've done your best to break him, haven't you? Despite the fact that Gotham fears him, and suspects him of murderous behavior, he's incorruptible. And you know that." Lex knew it because it seemed to be a trait that heroes shared: an infuriating belief in the triumph of all things honorable and just.

The Joker remained silent.

Lex continued. " _That_ used to be the game for you, wasn't it? To see if you could corrupt the incorruptible. You had your fun along the way, but when he disengaged, you wanted more. You want vengeance. You don't want to corrupt him for the sake of the game. You want to draw him out and break him, as retribution for a breach of trust. For disengaging from your understanding."

The Joker pursed his lips and spat defensively, "So?"

"So, you're never going to get that. Not with what you're doing. You can burn Gotham until it's nothing but cinders and smoldering molten metal. You can kill and maim, and it still won't break him. You need to use a different approach."

The Joker looked up at the ceiling. "Like what?"

"You need to break his own self-perceived strength, his steadfast belief in himself as a pillar of good. You need to show him that he's not the best, that he's not above reproach. That he's fallible, and that he's not the savior he wants to be. You need to infuse in him the same obsession that _you_ feel in needing to bring _him_ down. You need to crush him mentally, the same way he crushed you. Through envy and anger."

"And how do I do that?"

"By letting me borrow Lois Lane."

The Joker knelt down to Curtis' body, and jimmied the knife out of the base of the corpse's skull. "Why?"

"Because we need to give Superman the opportunity to save her, where the Batman has failed."

A spark of understanding flickered in the Joker's mind. "Say that again."

"I'm sure it's not escaped your notice that, for as omnipotent as Superman is, he never comes to the aid of anyone in Gotham, does he? I believe that there's an understanding between the men. Sort of like two territorial school bullies, really. They've drawn a line in the proverbial sand, and neither wants to cross it. And you better believe me when I say that the Batman hates Superman for all that he is capable of. The Batman wants to be something so much more than human, so much more than a fallible, jealous man wearing a hero's outfit. But he's not. He's just a man who can be broken, when shown just how impotent he really is."

The Joker slowly stood up. This man was confirming suspicions he himself had verbalized earlier to Lois when he shot the second video. "So you're telling me that by allowing Superman to rescue Lois Lane, that will break the Batman."

"Not break him, but create the hairline fracture that you can turn into an expanding fissure, and eventually, a gaping chasm. I'm opening the door for you, Joker. Trust me on this. I know what obsession does to a man. I know what it's like to be fueled in every waking moment by fantasies of revenge. You do as well."

"There's only one little problem with your idea, there, Rex."

_That's not my-_ Lex exhaled his annoyance.

The Joker continued. "You said that we need to let Superman rescue Lois Lane. Uh… how is that _borrowing_ her? Is Superman going to fly away with her, wait until the Batman slinks off pouting, and then return her to me with a friendly, 'Hey, I was just kidding, you can have her back'?"

"Superman won't be going anywhere with her."

The Joker wasn't convinced. "But that guy, he…. he _flies._ He's got incredible strength. What can you possibly do to take him down?"

Lex smiled. "He's not infallible. I know what his weakness is. And that's why I need your help. I've actually taken a page out of _your_ book, Joker."

He liked the sound of that. "How so?"

"You've shown me that simply killing an enemy is a hollow victory. It's so much more fun to _corrupt_ them, and watch them crumble in the aftermath. You corrupt your rival… and I'll corrupt mine."

The Joker really didn't know what Lex was alluding to, in wanting to corrupt Superman, but he didn't care. He also wasn't sure it was even possible. "Wait a minute," the Joker protested, "Superman is supposed to be the ultimate goody-goody. Why would he come to Gotham to rescue Lois, and not help the rest of Gotham out first?"

"Because he's not in love with the rest of Gotham."

That revelation shot the Joker back over to Curtis' corpse. "I knew it! _I knew it!"_ He kicked the corpse repeatedly with triumphant glee. _I could see it in her face. She's got feelings for him, and now we know it's not one-sided._ The Joker's grin was so wide it actually made his cheeks sore. Lex's proposed plan made sense: the Joker had left numerous taunts for the Batman to find Lois, but so far, the Batman had failed. If the failure could be punctuated by someone else - Superman - stealing his thunder, it would eat him up alive. The Joker knew what that type of jealousy felt like. What that type of rage felt like. It was the foundation from which giants could be ripped into pieces.

It was what he wanted the Batman to feel.

"Okay, what's your plan?"

"I know where Superman is. He's in a remote location, and doesn't yet know that you've got Lois. We need to get him to a location where he can see her… while I'm in close range of _him._ I want you to meet me at Gotham International Airport in an hour."

The Joker licked his lips. Oh, this was perfect. He was already staging his grand fireworks display at the airport anyway. "Wait a second, are you in Metropolis?"

"I have the means to be in Gotham in an hour."

The Joker laughed. "Uh, air traffic might be a bit of an issue at Gotham International." He didn't mention what plans he had in store, or what his men were already up to.

"Money affords me numerous detours, Joker. Meet me on the tarmac of the auxiliary strip for small engine planes. And bring the lovely Miss Lane with you."

The Joker paused. "Now, I'm getting her _back._ Just so we're clear on that. Superman's not taking her, and neither are _you._ I have _plans_ for her. She's _mine._ "

Lex flexed a gloved fist. "Joker, you can do whatever the hell you like with her once this is done. I have no interest in her beyond serving to draw out Superman."

The Joker wanted to make sure it wasn't a lie. "I said she's _mine,_ so don't think you can double-cross me and take her away."

Now it was Lex who scoffed. "I've seen what you've done to her, in your videos. If what you're doing off-screen comes remotely close to what you've done in front of the cameras, I'd like to buy you a beer. Personally, I hope you damage her beyond recognition. I hate the bitch."

With that, Lex terminated the call.

________________________________

"Pick up, you sadistic son of a bitch!"

Detective Murdock had tried phoning the Joker four more times without success. After allowing the first of those calls to ring for nearly a minute before termination, Murdock tried interchanging the last few digits of the phone number, hoping that the prior failed connections were due only to transposed numbers. Luck was not in his favor: each successive attempt at contacting the Joker using different numbers was routed as well, directing him to the voice mailbox of an insurance agent, a dry cleaning business and the voice mail of a college student at Gotham U, respectively.

The collar of his shirt felt stifling, and he loosened his tie. _This can't be happening._ He was beginning to think he'd stumbled into some sort of sick, cosmic joke: the Batman was on the hunt for the Joker, aided by Jones; Vincent Maroni had placed a ten million dollar bounty on the Joker's head, and an unknown party had orchestrated a prison break, likely in an effort to use the prisoners to collect on the Mobster's offer. Outside forces were conspiring against the Joker, but an escape was only a phone call away. _One simple phone call, to warn him. A warning that I can't deliver because that freak won't answer his God-damned phone._ Murdock leaned his forehead against the cold cement of the stairwell wall, and tried to slow his breathing. He'd come too far to lose his composure at such a critical point. _C'mon, Joe. Try the call again._

One last time, Murdock dialed the original number, pressing each key on the keypad with painstaking precision to ensure no sloppy mistakes were made. The familiar ringing of futility sounded in his ear, and he waited. Shifting his weight from one foot to the other, he waited even longer. He watched the secondhand sweep around the face of his wristwatch, as the third minute of listening to the unanswered call waxed into a fourth minute. No one picked up, and no prompt was triggered to route the call to voice mail.

_That_ has _to be the right number, I'm_ sure _of it._ All newly-acquired cell phone numbers were set up with a default pre-recorded generic mailbox message. Someone would have to purposely deactivate the default message, and disable voice mail from prompting a personally-recorded message altogether. Though it was possible that someone could have accidentally disabled both features, it wasn't likely. It had to have been done on purpose.

Murdock knew that whomever the number belonged to didn't want messages left. Messages were traceable. Shaking his head with dread, he knew that it was a confirmation that he was dialing the correct number.

But the Joker wasn't picking up the phone.

Murdock was slipping into full-blown panic. Two projections sprang to his mind to explain the Joker's failure to answer: either the Batman's surreptitious attack had already left the clown indisposed, or the Joker was as yet undiscovered by the Batman, but tied up in a sadistic activity that had his sole attention. Murdock honestly didn't know which situation he dreaded more. If the former were the case, then it wouldn't be long before Murdock was found out to be a mole in the Gotham Police Department; if it were the latter scenario, it meant that the Joker could only be warned by being…

…interrupted in person.

That tended not to end well for anyone doing the interrupting.

Cursing under his breath, Murdock snapped the phone shut and stuck it in his jacket pocket. He was feeling sick to his stomach with dread. There _was_ no choice in the matter: if the Joker went down, everyone associated with him went down; he had to be warned, at any cost. Murdock hoped that the cost wouldn't be his own life.

Fumbling for the car keys in his pocket, he ducked out of the stairwell and into the parking garage at MCU. He briefly considered driving his own Buick for anonymity sake, then reconsidered when he saw one of two remaining empty police squad cars. He reasoned that he could use the sirens to clear a faster path back to the Joker's base, and he could monitor the radio transmissions for reports of any activity that might tie into the mass vigilante manhunt underway for the clown by Gotham's derelicts and degenerates.

He used a master key to open a box mounted to the wall, containing spares to each squad car. He looked nervously around, but saw no one as he clawed for the first spare set of squad car keys he saw. He jogged over to the car, but had difficulty trying to steady his hand to be able to unlock the door. After he climbed in, the detective adjusted the rearview mirror and looked himself square in the eyes. _I hope to God you know what you're doing._

As the engine rolled over and he pulled the police car out of the parking deck, Murdock instinctively patted the concealed handgun strapped to his chest. He was as likely to need it against the Joker himself, as he was against anyone hunting the Joker down. Murdock just hoped that the clown wouldn't force a confrontation: the chances of his drawing the concealed gun from under his arm before the Joker could draw and throw one of his knives weren't favorable. Still, Murdock knew better than to approach the Joker unarmed.

The madman had repeatedly displayed a proclivity for killing messengers bearing untoward news.

For that very reason, Murdock couldn't bring himself to drive above the speed limit back to the Joker's lair, despite the gravity of the warning he brought.

________________________________

"Freeze it! Fast!"

Edward Tritt threw open the driver's door to the stolen police car and hit the S key on the laptop's keyboard, to select the current criminal profile displaying from the ViCAP database. With a meaty hand, he turned the monitor to an angle that allowed him to see the screen. He read the name with reservation. "Curtis. Steven," his eyes scanned the mug shot for a trace of recognition that wasn't immediately forthcoming, "Curtis." He eyed Smitty. "You sure about this one?"

Smitty gestured to the screen with determination. The chain binding his wrists clattered as he thrust his arms forward. "Yes! I _know_ that guy, man. I was in Gotham Max for about four months while he was there, before he was released. That guy had read about what I done, somewhere. The Internet, I guess. He'd try to talk to me out in the yard most days. I usually just blew him off."

Vasquez craned his neck to view the screen. "I don't remember that guy."

Smitty spun defensively on him. "Just 'cause you don't remember him doesn't mean jack shit! _I_ remember him. I talked to him."

Jonas Hodge stood next to the door, hand positioned at the holster of his prison guard's belt. "You just said you blew him off when he talked to you."

"No, I said I _usually_ blew him off. He was looking for some sort of 'in' with me. It was annoying, because he was always trying to find something to impress me, so I'd give him the time of day. He even showed me this big tattoo he had on his back, as if I'd give a shit. He tracked the women he raped. The tattoo was like a count, or something. I don't know, I guess the artwork was kind of cool. He said he was going to start killing the women he raped when he got out. I really didn't care about what he was saying, until he said that he couldn't let it interfere with his work for the clown."

Tritt felt his heart rate quicken with excitement. "He said that? He said, 'clown'?"

"Yeah, that's what he said. When I heard that, I go, 'You mean, the Joker?', and he's like, 'Hell, yeah!', so then I started talking to him. You know, to see if he was completely full of shit, just making it all up. He wasn't. The guy was a blowhard, and he didn't have the finesse to be a con artist. I could tell that what he was saying _wasn't_ some story he made up, because I'd try to trip him up by asking different questions about the same thing. His answers always matched. I knew that he wasn't lying about running with the Joker. So I gave him details of what I did so I could hear about what he'd seen with the Joker. He was released, like, three weeks later."

Hodge leaned forward to look at the screen. "Where's Curtis now?"

Tritt scanned the monitor for a status. "It doesn't say that he's back in prison." A devious smile crossed his lips, as he turned toward his colleague. "And there's also no record of his death. That means he's alive out there."

Jonas Hodge stood up, revealing his full height, arms crossed over his chest in doubt. "It don't mean he's with the _Joker_ though, does it?"

Tritt tipped his head to his shoulder in consideration, but quickly countered: "It doesn't mean he's _not_ with the Joker, either. Either way, it's the best lead we've got. Let's test this sucker out." With heavy fingers, Tritt hit the Enter key, followed by the T key to initiate the trace on the microchip implanted in Curtis. An hourglass icon appeared in the middle of the screen, above the word, "SEARCHING".

Hodge threw up his hands in resignation. "Aw, fuck! How long's this gonna—"

Before the complaint was formed, the laptop beeped and a digital map appeared. There was a pulsing dot in the middle of the screen, a marker on top of a city grid. A partial address appeared at the bottom of the screen: **STREET UKNOWN, GOTHAM CITY**

Tritt let out an exclamatory cry of triumph. "We got 'im! That fucker's here in Gotham!" He tapped the arrow key to increase the size of the city displayed on the screen, squinting to read the streets that were big enough to label. "Morrow Street. It's off of Morrow!"

"You know where that is?"

"Yeah," Tritt nodded, as he eyed the surrounding city grid. "It's in the waterfront district."

"The _waterfront?_ Shit!" Hodge stood with arms akimbo, shaking his head. Gotham was vast, and time wasn't on their side. "That's all the way on the other side of the city. It could take over an hour and a half to get there!" As far as Hodge was concerned, Curtis may as well be in Metropolis.

Tritt turned toward Hodge, and slapped the A-pillar of the stolen squad car appreciatively with a smile. "That's when a police car with sirens comes in handy."

Hodge looked back at the laundry truck, with the prisoners inside. "How're we gonna do this? There are twelve of 'em in there, plus these two," he motioned to Vasquez and Smitty.

"We split up." Tritt nodded at Smitty. "I'll take him and six men, and we'll track this Curtis guy down. You take him," he pointed at Vaquez, "and the rest. You can go after the nutjob who supposedly knows the Joker from Arkham."

Hodge stood his ground. "Hell, no! We're not splitting up!" He didn't trust Tritt. Tritt was seizing the better of the two leads, and Hodge had the feeling that if he weren't at Tritt's side when the reward was turned over, he wouldn't see a dime of it.

Tritt clenched his jaw. "We've got a better chance of finding the Joker if we search more than one area."

"So we check on this Curtis guy first, and if that don't work, then we look for the crazy man from Arkham."

Tritt shook his head. "No, there's no time. We need to search both areas at the same time. Word is eventually gonna reach the Joker that Maroni wants his head, and we could lose him if he goes into hiding."

Hodge scoffed. "Like the Joker's gonna run? That guy's so fuckin' crazy, he'd probably make himself as visible as possible, if he knew Maroni was after him. You know, he'd taunt Maroni. Something about the Joker ain't _right,_ man _._ He don't get scared like most people do. Normal people _run_ from danger, but he runs _at_ it."

Tritt smirked. "Oh, I think even the Joker might run, if he sees the manpower that we've got at our backs." He nodded at the laundry truck.

Hodge shook his head. "Even if that's true, we don't have enough vehicles to split up and keep a low profile. We only have two cars and that big-ass laundry truck. I say, we don't split up. We search one area at a time. I'll drive this squad car, with him—" he pointed at Vasquez, "—in the front seat, and two men in the back. You drive the Maxima, with this guy who knows Curtis sitting in the front, with you. You get two men in the back of that car, as well. You go in first driving the Maxima, so we don't make them suspicious with a cop car."

Tritt considered the proposition. He slowly nodded his head. "That's a plan. Let's do it!"

Hodge put up his hand. "That means we gotta leave a lot of the men behind. The big one's not gonna like that. I don't think he'll go for it. Do we just leave the rest in the truck, here in the parking lot?"

Tritt furrowed his brow. "No, I say we bring the truck, too, with the rest of the men in the back."

"You want to drive an oversized white laundry truck to the Joker's base? How's he not gonna see that thing comin' from two miles away?"

Tritt was confident. "Easy." He pointed to the third prison guard sitting the driver's seat of the truck. "We just tell him to come in three minutes after we do. When we might need the extra manpower."

"What about weapons? We only have what we've got on us, plus a few more in the cab of the laundry truck that we took from the security desk. You trust these guys with loaded weapons?"

Tritt slowly climbed out of the squad car, and faced Hodge squarely. "No, I don't. But I _do_ trust that big motherfucker who gave us his word. They're not gonna cross _him_."

Hodge didn't seem convinced. "How do you know that _he_ won't double-cross _us_?"

"I saw it in his eyes. He was on one of the ferries the Joker tried to blow up last year. He wants to get his hands on the Joker, personally. And that," Tritt smiled, "would be a sight I'd pay good money to see."

He crossed the lot, and motioned for the other prison guard to get out of the cab of the laundry truck. "Unlock the back," Tritt ordered, as he and Hodge raised their guns.

When the door unlocked and retracted upward, the convicts' leader stood and slowly walked to the edge of the truck, his head nearly reaching the top of the doorframe, seven feet high. He tilted his head to look at Tritt. "We leavin'?"

"Yep, we've got a lead, and it's as good a lead as we're gonna get." Tritt cleared his throat and made the pitch. "Here's the plan: you pick your three best men from the pack, and the four of you ride with us." He motioned with a sweeping gesture, using his shotgun, at the rest of the men. "Everyone else rides in this truck, a few minutes behind us." Both Tritt and Hodge braced themselves for the refusal they suspected was likely to follow.

Something happened that neither guard expected. The domineering convict spread his arms wide, as if in a show of presentation. "Did you say 'four'?"

Then, he smiled.

"Uh, huh, you said, 'four', didn't you?" The giant man nodded as he spoke. "That's a _sign_. That's the way it's _supposed_ to be. Me and my three." Without a backward glance, he motioned with his arm in a sweeping arc, and three men stood up and stepped forward to flank him. "I want you to meet my brothers." A black man with a scarred bald head and a goatee glared at the guards, standing next to his leader to the right. To the left, stood another black man who looked like he could enter a professional body-building contest. To his left stood a large white man whose neck and sides of his head were covered with tattoos; one of which, Tritt noted with a bit of confusion, was a swastika.

All three prison guards instinctively took a step backward, raising their guns, as the four men climbed out of the back of the truck. The giant was the last to get out, closing the door to the cargo area down as he descended, without any protests from the remaining men inside. He took a step forward. "You need divine help, and we's it. We's the retribution. We's the judgment of God." His eyes grew dark. "We's the Four Horsemen."

Tritt scoffed. "What the fuck is that supposed to mean?" He heard a sound and saw Hodge shooting him a look. Hodge's eyes were wide, and clearly registered fear. He mouthed the word, _Don't!_

The giant's voice lowered in register, as he turned to the scarred man at his side. "This is Conquest. His horse is white, and he comes first. This," he motioned to the white man, "is War. He rides the red horse and follows Conquest. This," the overdeveloped black man stepped forward, "is Famine. His horse is black, and he comes before me."

The giant stepped forward menacingly. Tritt cocked the gun. "Get _back!_ "

The man didn't retreat, but he stopped. He spoke slowly and with purpose: _"When the Lamb opened the fourth seal, I heard the voice of the fourth living creature say, 'Come!' I looked and there before me was a pale horse! Its rider was named Death, and Hades was following close behind him. They were given power over a fourth of the earth to kill by sword, famine and plague, and by the wild beasts of the earth."_

In unison, all four convicts unbuttoned the top of their prison-issued orange suits. Under each man's collarbone was a different tattooed name of one of the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse.

"Jesus Christ," Hodge's hands were shaking as he held his gun.

Tritt didn't understand what they were looking at, or how a man who seemed barely capable of a second-grade reading level could string sentences together like that. "What the hell was that?"

Hodge didn't take his eyes from the convicts in front of him. "Verses Seven and Eight. Chapter Six, Book of Revelations." Hodge had been raised in the Bible belt. He didn't take much interest in the moral lessons he'd been read, but the Book of Revelations scared the hell out of him.

Tritt rolled his eyes. _Great. A religious wacko in the body of a hulk. Fuckin' perfect._ Then Tritt recalled that the giant before him had been the one to cast the detonator off the side of the _Spirit_ , willing to throw away his own salvation and that of all other convicts on the ferry. Perhaps he really did envision himself in the role of some born-again Christian agent of moral justice and vengeance.

As if confirming Tritt's deduction, the behemoth's smile returned. "I come last. My horse is pale, and I am Death." With his finger, he underlined the tattoo under his collarbone in a Gothic script: DEATH. "We's the judgments that the Almighty has unleashed."

Tritt wasn't in the mood to listen to crap quoted from the Bible. "That's great. Congratulations. Now let's all take a little walk over to the cars." He motioned with his gun. The giant criminal – Death – walked with his head high, while his posse followed, warily eyeing the guns trained on them. Once all men were standing near the car with Smitty and Vaquez inside, Tritt came over and opened the door by Smitty. "You, out. You're riding with me. And him," he motioned to the giant. "So, who will be our fourth? You pick your man."

Blinking twice, Death replied, "Conquest."

Tritt shook his head in indignation, as sarcasm coated his words. "Super. Yeah, you and _Conquest_ will ride in the Maxima with – what was your name?"

"Smitty."

"With Smitty and me. Hodge, you'll drive the squad car with Vasquez and, uh," Tritt tried to conceal a snicker. He failed. "What did you call these guys?" He looked for their tattooed names, obscured by the collars of their outfits.

Death's words were slow. "War and Famine."

Tritt nodded. "Right. War and Famine. Well, War and Famine, you'll be riding with Hodge and Vasquez." He turned to Hodge. "You follow that map until it takes us to Curtis. We'll follow you. When you've found him, slow down, and I'll pull along side of you. You'll point out the location, and we'll go in first, so we won't stand out. You guys come in right afterward. We'll undo everyone's cuffs when we get there."

"What about weapons?" The one called Famine had spoken up.

Hodge did a mental tally. "We can give three of you weapons, that's all we have." He turned to the giant. "And you're giving us your word you won't double-cross us. We can trust you, right?"

Death replied, "We's not crossing you. We's on a mission from God. We's the judgment."

Hodge nodded. That was good enough for him. He went to the cab of the laundry truck and returned with three extra guns. He tried to hand one to Death.

"No. I don't need one. Give them to the others."

Tritt protested. "Nuh, uh. You're riding with me, and we're going in first. You need to be armed."

Slowly, Death turned his head to face Tritt. "I ride the pale horse. I carry no weapons." He raised his gargantuan hands outward, to the level of his shoulders. "These are all I need. My name is Death."

Tritt hesitated, then countered, "Look, _Death,_ this is the _Joker_ we're going up against. You bet your ass he's gonna be armed."

Death tipped his chin downward, and gripped the slack of the metal chain fastening his wrists to his ankles. Gritting his teeth, he curled his fists around the chain and pulled it apart using his own brute strength. Tritt's jaw dropped.

Death looked up at Tritt, and offered his hands for consideration, palms up, shaking them for emphasis. "All I need," he nodded. "All I need. I's the last Horseman."

Tritt said nothing. He gave Death a wide berth as he reached for the door to the driver's side of the Maxima. He climbed in, and started the car. Smitty sat behind him, next to Conquest, who both watched transfixed as Death circled the car and dropped his heft into the passenger's side front seat. Tritt noted how the car pitched from the behemoth's considerable weight.

The 3-car caravan pulled out of the parking lot, following the GPS signal that honed in on Curtis' microchip. They headed for Broadland Avenue, with an end destination somewhere off of Morrow Street, near the water.

________________________________

As Barker fantasized about how he could kill Lois as a show of loyalty to Mr. Joker, a movement on one of the screens before him caught his eye. He snapped out of his daydreaming and enlarged the image he was looking at. The video feed was live.

And it was coming from the camera mounted at the very end of the street, where their crossroad intersected with Morrow.

His heart racing, he sent the screenshot to the printer. The movement had halted, but the image was unmistakable.

After the printer spat out its file, Barker ran with it as fast as he could, up the stairs to the main floor. Then up to the second floor, where he saw the vile woman lying on her back. Alone. Fighting to catch his breath, Barker rounded the banister and ran up to the third floor, and down the hall, toward The Room.

"Mr. Joker! _Mr. Joker!"_

The door opened, and the Joker stuck his head out, Lois' cell phone still warm in his hand. "What's up, Buttercup?"

"He's here!" Barker thrust the paper in front of the Joker's face, with the unmistakable image on it of an ominous black vehicle that looked like a tank. "He found us! _It's the Batman!"_

The Joker gripped the paper with nervous excitement, cackling and bouncing on his feet. "Woo hoo hooo! He finally decided to show up-ah!" He looked down at Barker, whose eyes behind his clown mask were clearly filled with terror. The Joker put his hand on his minion's shoulder. "Barker, we need to make the Batman feel like a welcomed guest in our home, don't we?"

Barker would agree to whatever Mr. Joker said. "Yes, we do!"

"Good. That means I need your help, and we need to move fast. We need to get Lois up here. And as for you…"

Barker looked up at him with expectant, eager eyes. "Yes, sir?"

Deviant mirth stained the Joker's visage. "I'm going to need you to take off all your clothes. Now."

The Joker bounded down the stairs. Before he could even kneel down to pick Lois up off her back, Barker was already standing outside of The Room, naked except for his clown mask, awaiting Mr. Joker's instruction.

________________________________

. . . . . . .

Author's Notes for "Deal with the Devil"

. . . . . . .

_I'll let the readers decide who the devil is, who's referenced in the chapter title. Personally, I think I'd rather strike a deal with the Joker than with Lex Luthor. But that's just me._

_-4ofCups, 2009.10.19_


	46. Caught

*** CAUGHT ***

**Chapter 46**

**. . . . . . .**

_Fifteen minutes. The Batman can be here in as soon as fifteen minutes._

_Time to play._

The visual splinters of envisioned scenes yet to unfold tumbled about in the Joker's mind like debris caught in torrential rapids.

Anticipation of the Batman's impending arrival manifested itself in an explosion of thoughts so brilliant, that it almost brought pain to his head as he watched them play out in his mind. Scene after scene flickered in rapid succession on the screen of his consciousness: he saw splatters of blood and knives; pain born of unchecked wrath. Vengeance brought to its fruition.

It was a masterpiece.

There was a palpable waxing of delicious agitation gushing up with a geyser's force from his core. Emotions, when he experienced them, had their own tastes.

His emotions at this moment were a cocktail of excitement, resentment and fiendishness. He savored them, and let them coat his palate. They mixed together well, tasting like cotton candy and iron and absinthe. Delightful sensations standing alone, intoxicating when ingested as an amalgam of willful abandon.

He thirsted. So he drank from the well of his emotions. They coursed through him, and he could hear them rush as they washed through his veins. They simultaneously boiled within him and frosted his senses.

_So many ways to toy with the bat. So many ways to wound the bat._

He felt his pulse quicken as his conversation with Lex Luthor distilled even more clearly:

_Now, finally, the opportunity to_ break _the bat._

Not just break him. Shatter him.

This moment had been a long time in the making. A very long time.

The Joker hadn't had the opportunity to bask in his rival's undivided attention since the Batman had strung him up, upside-down outside the Pruit building, after intervening in the clown's attempt to blow up the _Liberty_ and _Spirit._ That had been well over a year ago. To a man hungry for the play of an apt combatant, it had felt like scores of time.

After that destined crossing of forces, fate had underscored the inextricable link between them, by sending both men down parallel paths of seclusion. The bat and the clown would come to embody treachery and chaos, each of them a lynchpin for the good citizens of Gotham to fear and decry. They were villainy incarnate: the Joker by nature, the Batman, by construct. The similarities and ironic differences hadn't escaped the Joker's notice. He knew surely they hadn't escaped the Batman's notice either.

They were brothers in mind and in circumstance. But not in intention.

The bat had gone into hiding, a willing foil to the lie perpetuated by the Gotham Police Department who fingered him for Harvey Dent's murderous crime spree. The Batman played the flagitious villain with convincing aplomb; but the Joker knew the truth.

And he vowed the day would come when Gotham would know the truth, too.

As he bided his time in a maximum security padded cell, where the only measure of a day's passing was marked by routine clandestine beatings by the orderlies, the Joker bore the burden of his confinement with an unflinching reserve of strength. It was bearable, because he knew the Batman was in isolation as well.

The thought of the Batman _out_ there, hunting and stalking the criminals of Gotham, while he rotted in Arkham… _that_ would have been unbearable. If the Joker couldn't come out to play, then neither could the bat. That was the way it was supposed to be.

So as he devised his own escape from Arkham, the Joker also became architect to a conspiracy to manifest a war between the Mafia, the Belarussians and the Chinese Triad gangs. Something bad enough to draw the Caped Crusader out of self-imposed seclusion. The Joker would emerge from the madhouse – a metaphor for the gallows of Gotham's very soul – and their epic scrimmage would resume.

Yet when the Joker _did_ come out to play after his escape from Arkham, there _was_ no Bat. Not even the epic street war, masterfully crafted and executed, had drawn him out.

That was unacceptable. Unacceptable, but flattering.

The Joker suspected that the lack of intervention by the Batman was due to the clown's own seeming absence of involvement in the street war, so he decided to test this theory. The Joker chose to mirror the Batman's actions by keeping a low profile for a few months, until the atmosphere was primed to gauge the Batman's willingness to reengage in their symbiotic rivalry. He had choreographed a single heist. Simple, but effective.

It had worked: the Batman had appeared on the scene, albeit briefly, before fleeing as the police approached. The Joker got what he sought out: confirmation that even a deadly street war between the criminal underworld juggernauts of Gotham was no match for the scope of the threat that the Joker himself was capable of.

The Batman had correctly assessed the Joker as the greatest threat to Gotham of all.

Riding high on the heist's success, the Joker plotted successive schemes… but none of them resulted in an encore appearance by the Batman.

Clearly, the Joker needed to bide his time until the circumstances presented themselves to craft something truly catastrophic, to force the bat out permanently and in spectacular fashion.

Enter Lois Lane.

The Joker had sought the counsel of Dr. Jonathan Crane to craft a tandem plan, intended to run as a supplement to the war between the three largest criminal associations. This second plot was more intimate, more of a personal avenue of vengeance. It was to be a smaller scale attack on an individual, chosen specifically to unravel the fabric of justice that bound Gotham together, however tenuously.

Lois hadn't been the Joker's intended target for his insidious psychological tortures.

Yet the broadcast of the insulting _Metropolis Live_ episode provided a much more enjoyable target for him to focus his wrath upon. Lois had been the victim of horrifically bad circumstance. She had chosen to anchor the wrong show at the wrong time about the wrong man.

And it was costing her dearly.

Yet it provided the Joker with even greater opportunity for destruction. He would use the tool of his intended mockery and humiliation to bring Gotham to its knees. Even he hadn't foreseen the possibility that he could eclipse the danger of his own contrived street war by having a little fun with a hostage and some bombs. But he certainly delighted in the sheer scope of the resulting destruction.

After using her as the catalyst to savage the city with terrifying random anarchy, the Joker planned to use Lois to expose Harvey Dent as the monster the Joker had originally crafted him to be, thereby exposing the lie that the police fed the public with the willing cooperation by the bat.

Indeed. The Batman needed to be punished for his willful participation in the farce. Gotham itself would be punished as well. It bled now, but the surface cuts would render into gashes that would bleed in torrents, when the Joker showed them what true despair was.

The Joker's tongue swiped his lips and he smiled as he stood back to admire his handiwork:

Harvey Dent's fall from grace.

The war between the Mafia, Belarussians and Chinese Triad gangs.

Lois Lane's transformation into a messenger of despair and chaos.

The Joker was the puppet master who controlled everything. Soon, everyone would know whose city this really was.

Tonight was only the beginning. And it was far from over.

________________________________

Detective Murdock pulled the squad car over to the side of the road. He opened the door, leaned out, and heaved the contents of his stomach onto the paved shoulder of the boulevard. With the back of his hand he brushed at sinewy strings of saliva and bile that dangled from his lips, when suddenly the second wave of nausea hit. His eyes bulged and his throat strained as his body expelled what it could in violent bursts of primal fear.

He was having second thoughts. Maybe telling the Joker in person about the forces conspiring to capture him wasn't such a good idea.

_I should just run. Make a break for it. I could disappear in the Narrows, or flee to Metropolis. Just vanish someplace._

No. He knew it wasn't an option. He would forever be looking over his shoulder, waiting to see the Joker hovering over him with that fearsome Chelsea grin, and with that tinny-sounding laugh.

And with a knife. Always, assuredly, with a knife.

If he ran, the Joker would find him. One way or another. It was inevitable.

He breathed through his nose, the cold night air stinging his nasal passages as he gathered his composure. Closing the car door, he reluctantly pulled back out onto the road, onward to the Joker's lair. For Murdock, going forward was the only choice he had. He was not a man to consider suicide.

Perhaps he should have. Jones had chosen that option.

Jones had chosen wisely.

________________________________

The pace of the footfalls was quick. Lois heard them grow louder as they approached, until the floorboards bowed slightly near her head, bearing the weight of the man who now stood above her. The Joker cocked his head and smirked at her.

"Hello, Sweet Tart. Remember me?"

Lois nodded languidly, looking at him in fascination. "You're the Joker."

"Bingo," he winked.

From her vantage point on the floor, he seemed to tower over her at least ten feet. Lois' senses were returning to her, as was her awareness that something was different: her perception seemed off kilter. Logically she knew that the Joker couldn't be as tall as he appeared, but everything seemed… skewed. Lois felt dizzy and lost. She wasn't completely sure where she was, or how she got there. But she knew that the man above her was recognizable. A constant that she would cling to until this mental fog passed.

_If_ it passed. The sensation of cognitive numbness wasn't entirely unpleasant. Trying to think was like trying to claw her way out of quicksand. The more she tried to piece together what had happened, the more her memories receded from her grasp. She resigned herself to focusing on what was right in front of her. That was easier.

The Joker bent down, his unpainted face partially obscured by tangles of hair that hung unkempt. "Time to get up now. We've got to make you pre _sen_ table, just in case," his tongue poked the inside of his left cheek, "company drops by."

Scooping up the back of Lois' neck with one hand, he took hold of her upper arm with his other hand. He drew her upward slowly into a sitting position. Lois moaned as the room spun, and her head began throbbing. She sucked in her breath through gritted teeth, and instinctively grabbed slack fabric of the Joker's pants, making a fist until her knuckles were almost white.

"Ah… bup bup bup," the Joker briefly coddled. He swiped his tongue quickly over his bottom lip, scanning her face. When she appeared to blink him into focus, he decided she had stabilized enough. "See? You're fine." He coarsely brushed hair out of her face. "Now, _up_ we go," he directed in a sing-song tone.

As he brought her to her feet, Lois pitched forward, having no grasp on equilibrium just yet. He caught her by the shoulders to steady her, and pulled her upright. Lois spun herself toward the Joker – the only seeming familiarity she could recognize – and threw her arms around him, burying her face against his vest.

As she clung to him, he grinned. A guttural laugh escaped from deep within his chest. He brought his hand up underneath her chin, tilting her head back until she met his eyes.

"I, uh," (smack) "appreciate the show of _trust_ , Lois. In fact, I think I _like_ this show of trust." With his other hand, he stroked the back of her head, as one would pet a dog. "You're a good little Tart. You know what would make me proud of you? Hmmmm?"

Lois' eyes brightened, as hope turned up the corners of her mouth. "What?"

"If would you show me – again – how much you trust me. Only, I want you to do it _upstairs_ ," he nodded in the direction of the open door. "I need you to help me welcome a visitor." He smirked with malice. "Can you be a good girl and do that for me?"

She nodded with conviction. "Yes!"

"Good." Yes, it was good. Lois was his to mold, and the Batman was on his way to attempt a rescue. The air crackled with excitement.

The Joker felt excited, in more ways than one.

A lascivious thought crossed his mind. He encircled her in a tight embrace, pressing himself into her. "Does this feel good, Lois?"

She smiled and looked off to the side, like an embarrassed schoolgirl. She blushed. "Yes."

The Joker brought his forehead down to hers. "After you help me roll out the ol' welcome mat, there's more of _this_ ," he squeezed her tighter for emphasis, dropping the register of his voice, "in store for you."

Lois closed her eyes and laid her head on his chest again, enjoying the welcomed warmth of his body. The Joker's eyes narrowed, as he raised his gaze above her head. "That's right, little Tart, you can _show_ me just how much you trust me. It will be—" he cupped her face in his hands, "—a very enter _tain_ ing show."

A dark smile crossed his lips at the thought.

The Joker kept alert, gauging the passing time. The Batman was likely still at the end of the street at the junction at Morrow. He had a ways to go yet: the Joker's base was the length of about six city blocks from that intersection. It was an unbroken stretch of road, with no other roads intersecting it but Morrow. The trick would be for the Batman to determine which of these identical dilapidated row houses was the base for the most notorious criminal in Gotham.

However, the Joker knew the Batman was smart. It wouldn't take him too long before divining which house was the right one. The Joker estimated it would take about twelve or thirteen more minutes before the bat stopped in front of his location. Less than fifteen minutes, likely not sooner. But it was soon enough. The thought made the Joker's fingers itch for a knife, as wicked glee coursed through his body.

He had known there was a remote possibility as the evening unfolded that the Batman would discover his whereabouts. Consequently, the Joker had been planning a very special presentation, just for his eyes.

It meant that he had to pull things together quickly.

The Joker spun Lois around and put his hands up on her shoulders from behind, shoving her for emphasis. "Now, uh… move i _t_." He steered her out the doorway and to the stairs to the third floor. Lois' field of vision rocked and her footing was unsteady, and she stalled as she lifted her foot onto the first stair. "I said, ' _move it'."_ He didn't raise his voice. He didn't have to. The threat was there, insistence stark. Lois gripped the banister and began the rocky ascent, up the same stairs that the Joker had dragged her down by the back of her head.

But Lois didn't recall that horror. Though her limbs weighed her down like lead, she was too focused on hoisting herself up to the top of the stairs.

It was what he wanted. And she wanted to make him proud.

________________________________

Vincent Maroni was restless. Reality was beginning to sink in: reality that the Joker could very well prove a difficult man to apprehend, despite the sizeable bounty he'd put on the clown's head. He was in too much pain to pace, so he sat in the chair of the VIP lounge, fingers drumming on the velvet armrest. The music had long been shut off at _Flesh For Fantasy_ , and the empty room seemed vacuous without the normal den of customers dancing and grinding against each other.

Only two hours had passed since learning of his daughter's murder, and the threat on his wife's life by the Belarussians, if the stolen weapons weren't returned. Two hours felt like two days.

He was a man embittered with revenge, and he wanted it as soon as possible.

Maroni decided he would _have_ it, even if it weren't on the Joker just yet.

"Chaz, Donny," he summoned. The two henchmen crossed the floor to their _capofamiglia._

"What is it Mr. Maroni?"

"Get me a piece of paper and a pen."

Without hesitation, Donny walked around the bar, and pulled out a notepad and a ballpoint pen. He nearly sprinted back to Maroni's side.

"Here you go, sir."

Maroni nodded, and started to write. His brow knotted, and he made angry strokes across the pad, until the paper tore. He slowly turned his eyes upward to Donny, who stood expectantly at his side.

"This pen is out of ink," he grumbled.

Donny blinked, looked at the offending instrument in Maroni's hand and shrugged his shoulders. "Sorry, it was the only one back there."

Maroni glared at Donny. "What? 'Sorry', that's all you have to say to me?" He shook his head and chuckled. Chaz instinctively took a step backward, and Dr. Silvi, who had been monitoring the scene from across the room, recoiled. The only time Maroni laughed like that that was when he was on the cusp of a violent tirade.

Maroni glared at Donny. "You know what I've been through today? Huh? Do you, you stupid cretin _FUCK?"_ His face reddened and veins stood out at his temples. "Allow me to recount my _day_ for you, for your, uh, your edification. _May I?_ " He spat his words with sarcastic venom.

Donny blanched. "No, sir, you don't have t—"

"Naw, no! No! I _want_ to. I _want_ to educate you. I genuinely want you to _know,_ you dumb fucking sack of _shit_ , what I've been through today. Okay?"

Donny chewed on the inside of his cheek with fearful anticipation.

Vinnie held up a hand to enumerate the effronteries. He folded his thumb over tucked fingers and lifted the pinky. Maroni started the mental tally. _Number one_. "The Joker hacks one of his own men to pieces with a God-damned machete, in the back of _my_ restaurant, and I got to clean up the slop." He unfolded his ring finger, stretching it upward along side his pinky. _Number two._ "I come _here_ to try to unwind," with his other hand he pointed with force downward on the armrest of his chair, "and I see that freak couple with the guy _dressed_ like the Joker. In my own fuckin' club."

Donny opened his mouth then closed it, failing to find words to ameliorate the situation.

Maroni continued, dramatically rolling his eyes to recall all the events of the evening. He unfolded his middle finger, waving his hand with the three outstretched fingers in Donny's direction. _Number three._ "The fuckin' _Batman_ crashes my club. The same son of a bitch who murdered my brother Sally and drove my daughter to starve herself from fear… and not only do you incompetents let him go after I get fuckin' _electrocuted,_ but," he unfolded his index finger, "I wind up with two bullets in my leg! And I gotta wait for my own God-damned _doctor_ to get here, because the Joker's bombs have tied up traffic all over this shithole of a city!" _That's number four._ His face was purple with rage.

Dr. Silvi swallowed, hoping the swath of wrath pouring out of Maroni wouldn't arc in his direction.

"And if that isn't enough." He shook his head, took a deep breath, unfolded his thumb and stuck his outstretched palm in Donny's face. _Number five._ "I learn that my daughter, my _baby girl,_ is dead. Murdered! And the same fuckin' animals who killed her are now threatening my wife!"

Donny felt small and humbled. And terrified.

Maroni gripped the side of the chair and unsteadily hoisted himself to his feet. "So that's my day, shit-for-brains. This is what I have to deal with. And you skip on over here, like Peter- _fuckin'_ -Pan, to bring me a pen that doesn't work." He glared unblinking at Donny. The red hue of his face began to wane, but the fury was still in his eyes. He shook his head back and forth in a small range of motion for a good fifteen seconds, never taking his eyes off Donny.

They all had seen Maroni do this before. He was collecting himself, so he could give the order in a calm manner.

Which was exactly what Maroni did.

He outstretched his arm toward Chaz, palm up. His voice was markedly softer and controlled. "Your piece."

Chaz swallowed, shooting Donny an apologetic look. He handed over his handgun to Maroni. Donny took a few steps backward, holding his hands up in front of him in a defensive motion. "Look, Mr. Maroni—"

Vinnie swiped the gun from Chaz' hand, took aim and fired three shots into Donny's chest at point-blank range. Donny dropped to the floor, sputtering blood as his body involuntarily jerked and twitched in deaths' throes. Maroni fired twice more into Donny's head, sending part of his skull skittering across the floor, leaving a bloody trail of brain matter and bone fragments. The sound of the gunshots in the cavernous room was thunderous.

Maroni let out the breath he'd been holding, as he stood over the body of his dead henchman. The killing brought no sense of satisfaction. He tucked his upper lip into his mouth. "Somebody get me a God-damned pen that works."

Dr. Silvi pulled one from his medical bag and walked with unsure footing toward Maroni. His arm visibly shook as he outstretched it, not wanting to get any closer to the aura of volcanic rage than absolutely necessary.

Maroni took the pen, sank back down into his chair, and wrote a name on the piece of paper. "Until the Joker is found, someone is going to suffer. I need to make someone bleed. For my own entertainment and distraction." He tore off the paper and handed it to Chaz.

Chaz read the name on the paper, and his mouth slackened. He felt sick to his stomach. "Sir, do you—"

His words were cut short by a molten glare. Maroni pointed at him. "Don't challenge me, son. Move."

Chaz, nodded obsequiously and went to the business office. He opened a file drawer, pulled out a folder, and flipped open to the top sheet in the stack. Chaz scribbled down an address with an unsteady hand. Stuffing the paper in his pocket, he grabbed a taser from inside a desk drawer, along with two sets of handcuffs. He already had rope and a baseball bat in the trunk of his car. As he crossed back through the main room on his way out, Maroni pointed at him. "Don't fail me."

Chaz shook his head. "No, sir. I won't come back empty-handed."

Maroni watched Chaz leave. _See that you don't._

________________________________

The Batman stopped his vehicle at the intersection of Morrow and the last unnamed street that crossed it. Morrow bisected the cross street, just like all the others. The Joker's lair could be down the street to his left or his right. The distance in each direction seemed to be about five city blocks or so. He didn't have the luxury of being able to search in both directions. Time wasn't on his side. He needed to discern whether to search the north direction of the street or the south.

He opened the hatch of the tumbler prototype, hiked himself up onto the seat and looked out across the river. There had been a red neon sign in the background of the video frame, seen through the window, below the full moon. That had been about five hours ago, and the moon's current position held little by way of positioning clues for him to go by. His eyes narrowed, as he scanned the horizon for shocks of garish red.

There were several. All wedged between other neon signs, practically one on top of the other.

The waterfront district was seedy, a popular place for dive bars, adult lounges and subculture clubs. Hideous neon signs were a trademark that targeted Gotham's nighttime thrill-seekers. Every business' sign dazzled and competed with neighboring facilities, and it seemed that each marquee was brighter than the one next to it. There were several red neon signs, but none appeared to stand alone. He thought back to the video's image. Had other colored neon signs been nearby, they would have appeared faintly in the enlarged video image as well. But there had been only red.

He scanned up and down the strip, but his head kept drawing back to the right, across the river from the south length of the cross street. There was a red sign that was a bit higher than the others, but right in front of it were a blue neon sign shaped like a star, and a green flashing rectangular sign.

Then the epiphany: _The blue and green signs appear right in front of the red one from my_ current _vantage point. But if I were to travel south down this road, I could get to a point where the distance between the signs is great enough for them not to appear clustered together._

Hope quickened his pulse, and he sank down into the seat, as the hatch slid closed above him with the low whine of hydraulic pumps. In his enthusiasm and exhaustion, he nearly gunned the accelerator. But before his foot made contact, he stopped abruptly.

A lesson surfaced in his mind. From the far reaches of his memory, the words came back from his one-time mentor, Ra's Al Ghul:

_Always mind your surroundings._

Now was not the time to act in haste. He couldn't afford to betray what should be a stealthy approach, and accidentally give the Joker forewarning of his impending arrival.

The advantage was in the Joker's court already, so the Batman knew he needed to be careful. He needed to think several steps in advance.

Surely, the Joker already had.

He cranked the wheels of the vehicle to the right, and slowly set out down the south length of the cross street. He shut the engines off, turned off the headlights, and coasted with silent hydraulic propulsion. The only noise he made was the muffled crush of pebbles under the massive weight of the tires.

He advanced slowly, looking through the break of row houses to the shore on the other side of the river, keeping his eye out for the red neon sign seeming to break away from the others around it.

Adrenaline began to flow, as the recollection of his face-offs with the Joker filled his mind. The last time he saw the Joker, it was after Rachel's death. He'd wanted to let the madman fall from the building to his death, but his conscience overrode his thirst for vengeance.

Of course, at the time he saved the Joker, he hadn't yet known how the madman had deconstructed Harvey Dent, turning him into a channel of rage that was unleashed on Gordon and his family. God only knew what he was doing and had done to Lois Lane, with hours at his disposal from within a base sheltered from the world.

The Batman was unaware that his knuckles were white under his gloves, as he gripped the steering handles in fury. With stealth, he closed the distance between himself and the Joker's lair.

_Maybe she's still alive._

Maybe.

________________________________

As the Batman made his slow approach, Detective Murdock was also bound for the Joker's lair. He was still well on the other side of the river, but he was making steady progress, if not quick progress. He found that his speed seemed to drop the closer he got, not wanting to be the bearer of bad news.

Several miles behind him, completely unnoticed by the throngs of panicked Gotham citizens, drove a three-car caravan of a Nissan Maxima, a Gotham police car, and a white laundry truck.

Of the fourteen criminals in the caravan, the four men calling themselves the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse all had a common link in their criminal histories: all four had been sent to death row as a result of their prosecution by the late District Attorney Harvey Dent, to pay for the crimes they'd committed.

The other ten death row inmates were bonded by a different commonality: a seething resentment over their incarceration, after being captured by the Batman.

And they hadn't forgotten it.

________________________________

At a private airport in Metropolis, a small jet plane taxied down the runway and lifted off. Lex Luthor watched as the city lights in the blackness below grew smaller with increased altitude.

He knew the flight to Gotham wouldn't be a long one. It would just feel that way. When a man is so close to actualizing the culmination of an all-consuming passion, time seems to advance at glacial speed. So works the beast of obsession.

Patience. Now was the time for patience. Lex pressed the intercom button by his seat, to address the pilot. "Gustav."

The response was immediate. "Yes, Mr. Luthor?"

"Wake me just before our descent into Gotham. I need to make a phone call."

Lex closed his eyes, and tipped his head back to rest it on the seat. Bill had served his purpose, in helping him contact the Joker with the stealth cellular technology. The laptop had recorded Bill's keystrokes, rendering Bill obsolete. As he served no more use, his body was being disposed of by professionals in Lex's personal employ, as the billionaire tilted his seat back in comfortable luxury.

He probably had about a half hour to rest. Perhaps a bit longer.

So, too, did Superman, before his world would be turned inside out.

________________________________

Barker stood in the hallway next to The Room, naked except for his clown mask. He watched as the loathsome woman was being shoved down the hallway toward him, at the insistence of Mr. Joker, who wasn't wearing his make up. Barker knew that he was the only man in the clown's crew to see him without the frightening face paint. As Mr. Joker hadn't killed him for it, Barker understood himself to be imbued with an unspoken immunity from any wrath the psychopath might exhibit.

Only one other man in the Joker's crew had ever seen him without his make up: an unfortunate named Zender. It hadn't ended well for him.

Zender had been inside The Room with a few other men several months back, watching as the Joker decapitated a taxi driver who had taken a wrong turn and ended up outside their lair. Barker hadn't been in The Room to witness the decapitation, but had heard second-hand that as the Joker sawed the victim's head off, the severed arteries in the man's neck had shot blood in a geyser fashion onto the Joker's coat and face. Once finished with the interloper, the Joker had directed his men to dispose of the body by leaving it in a shopping cart at a grocery store. Then he'd closed himself in the bathroom, and turned the faucet on.

As the crew gathered up the body and severed head to made their garish delivery, Zender decided to seek clarification. He'd yelled, "Whole Foods or Star Market?" The Joker hadn't replied, so Zender foolishly entered The Room without an invitation. Not seeing the clown inside, he stepped in further and approached the bathroom door.

He opened it without knocking.

"Whole Foods—" He'd stopped abruptly, staring with his mouth agape at the clown who had washed off the bloodied face paint. The other henchmen craned their necks to see what had cut Zender's words off. They saw only the Joker's arms shoot out to pull the man into the bathroom with him. The door had slammed quickly, and then had come a high-pitched screaming, as the Joker made quick work of the insolent.

Zender had been dealt with efficiently, but Barker was still alive. Since their coinciding stay at Arkham, tonight was the first night that Barker had seen his boss without his face paint, but no retributive actions had been taken. The little man smiled behind his mask, knowing it was further evidence of his special bond with Mr. Joker.

Lois looked at the strange subordinate toward whom she was being shoved. Somewhere in the recesses of her mind, she felt a flicker of revulsion at seeing the shocking naked body in contrast to the garish clown mask, but she didn't react. It only seemed somewhat odd, at most. She was still too numb to be capable of stark emotional responses. She just looked at him, puzzled.

Barker returned her stare with loathing from behind his mask.

Then her eye caught the corpse in the hallway, behind Barker. It was nearly unclothed, propped up sitting against the wall. It was the body of a young man.

The upper part of his face was shattered, and part of it was missing altogether.

Lois hesitated as she stared at the dead man, who appeared to be closer to the age of a boy. The face hadn't been cut off. It looked to her as if it had been blown off. A vague sense of familiarity flickered in the back of Lois' mind, but she couldn't quite put her finger on what it was. Before she could linger too long on the thought, a voice interrupted her recollection.

"Barker, you and Lois are going to help me stage a welcome for our Bat-friend-ah. Lois has had a bit of a rough night, so she needs hydration and energy. There's water in my bag. Check the closet for one of those meal replacement drink… thingies." He fluttered his hand, waving Barker into The Room as he followed, pulling Lois over to Curtis' body in the middle of the floor.

Barker made a beeline for the far closet near the bathroom, opening it up to find a case of strawberry-flavored Ensure on the floor. The henchmen kept them in stock, for the days when the Joker spent long hours working someone over in The Room. Barker pulled out a can and went to the blue duffle bag for a bottle of water. He walked over to Lois and handed her the bottle and the can. "Here," he said begrudgingly.

The Joker looked at the can. "Let me see the expiration date." He knotted his brow, looking for fine print on the bottom of the label. "I can't have my girl projectile vomiting or, uh, coming down with a bout of nuclear diarrhea in the next few hours from food poisoning. She's still got a big night ahead of her, don't you, Sweet Tart?" His voice was positively cheery.

As the Joker scanned for an expiration date, Barker quietly seethed, wounded that Mr. Joker referred to the awful woman as his 'girl'. Pangs of jealousy coursed through him. He wished her dead.

The Joker couldn't find an expiration date anywhere on the can, turning it in every direction. "Well, the can's not bulging, so I guess it's still good." He peeled back the sealed cover and lifted the can to Lois' mouth. "Drink some of this. Slow, now."

Lois nodded and took the can, tasting the sweet drink as it coated her tongue. The sensation was pure bliss, and she tipped the can to drink more. After a few swallows, the Joker pulled the can away. "Now drink some water. You're dehydrated." He cracked open the cap and held the back of Lois' head as he tipped the bottle at her lips, not caring that some ran down her chin. She compliantly took a few sips, then looked down at the corpse at her feet.

The Joker kept his eyes on her, but tipped his head toward the body. "Remember him? That's Curtis. Barker's going to make him his bitch."

Barker craned his face upward in confusion at the remark. The Joker sneered down at the body, handed the bottle of water to Lois, and crossed over to where the bag lay discarded by his signature purple coat and gloves. He reached underneath to pull out something that seemed to reflect the lights above softly. It was made of pink satin.

He raised the back of a balled fist up to his mouth, and cleared his throat. "Uh, Lois, I think you're long overdue to get out of those clothes. They're bloody and ripped, and that's no way to make a first impression." He scrunched up his face and shook his head for emphasis. "I've got something much nicer and more… _fitting_ to the _occasion_ for you to wear." He curled a finger under a spaghetti strap on Pink Sarah's teddy, and twirled it in the air. "You'll make _quite_ an impression in this."

Lois watched the slip twirl. "It's pink."

"Yep. You like pink."

Lois looked to the side as she thought about it, and slowly shook her head. "No… no, I don't think—"

"Yes, you _do,_ Lois. You like pink." (smack) "I like you in pink, so _you_ like pink. Get it?" The scars puckered his face as he grinned mischievously.

Lois resigned herself. "Okay."

He tilted his chin down to his chest, and looked at her from dark eyes. "Put it on."

He balled up the teddy and tossed it at Lois. She didn't react quickly enough, and it hit her arm and fell on top of Curtis' bare back. She stared at it, as the hem came dangerously close to soaking up blood from the knife wound gaping in the back of the dead man's skull.

"Where's the rest of the outfit?"

The Joker slapped his hand on his thigh and brayed like a donkey, laughing at her expense. "Wha—um, what, Sweet Tart?" He caught his breath. "The _rest_ of it? That's it," he pointed to the slip. "End of story, princess."

The term of endearment rang hollow. Lois tilted her head in confusion. "Princess?"

"Pardon _me,_ Lois. I meant to address you as Queen of Tarts. Didn't mean to demote ya." The Joker strode over to the bathroom with enthusiastic purpose. After emptying his bladder, he propped the door open so Barker and Lois were within his sight. He opened the medicine cabinet, and messy jars with smeared labels tumbled out, clattering into the sink below. He removed the lid from one jar, and began rubbing generous helpings of white greasepaint on his face. "Barker, help Lois get into her new outfit."

Barker turned his head toward the Joker, tipping it slightly in confusion. Neither he nor Lois moved. The Joker rolled his eyes in annoyance. _Jeez, do I have to do_ everything _around here?_ Condescension hung thick in the air: "Barker, help Lois _out_ of her clothes and put the pink slip _on_ her." Barker didn't want to have to touch the woman, but if Mr. Joker said he should, then he didn't even think to protest.

Barker took the bottle and can from Lois' hands and set them on the floor. She instinctively reached up for her blouse's buttons, but stopped when she heard a scolding.

"Ut tut tut tut tut," the clown shook a finger in her direction, "it's _Barker's_ job to help you out of your clothes. It's _your_ job to remember the numbers I told you. Practice them, Lois." He swiped his fingers across his forehead, creating a wide white streak, opening the medicine cabinet mirror to an angle enabling him to watch Barker and Lois in the reflection.

This was a show he didn't want to miss.

Barker reached up and unfastened Lois' buttons starting from the top down. "Slow, Barker," the Joker directed, "slowly. You want Lois to _enjoy_ it." Lois let her arms hang at her side, watching as the small man worked. She felt apprehensive as her shirt slowly came unfastened. She didn't protest. If the Joker wanted this, then maybe she did, too. That seemed the way things should be, even if she felt vaguely repulsed at what stood before her.

When the last button was undone, Barker tugged at her sleeves, and the blouse fell to the floor. Lois wore only a maroon satin bra on top. She looked down with fascination at the growing bruises on her body, and the cut across her abdomen. She couldn't recall how she'd gotten them, and couldn't feel what must have been pain for the throbbing that still pulsed in her head.

Both she and Barker were standing in profile from the Joker's vantage point. He smirked as he rubbed paint on his ears and along his jaw line. Barker looked down at Lois' boots. "Sit down so I can take your boots off." Lois nodded absently, sat down on the floor and stuck her legs straight outward. Barker pushed up both pant legs to her knees, unzipped the boots on the inside seams, and gave each one a tug until they were off.

"Socks, too," the Joker instructed. He blackened his eyes with obsidian paint, finding distraction in the amusing scene playing out in the middle of The Room. Barker found the top of the navy blue knee socks, and pulled each one down so it was inside out. He placed them next to Lois' boots.

"Now ask her to stand up, Barker."

Barker nodded, stood up himself, and spoke to Lois in a shaky voice. "Get up, please." Lois slowly got to her feet, and Barker opened and closed his fists with nervous tension, not wanting to remove the next article of clothing.

"Now, her pants, Barker. Take them off her slowly." He turned from the mirror until he was facing Barker and Lois. "I know this is new territory for you, little pal, but you can do it. Take them off _slowly_. It's how a man," he lowered his voice, "does it for a woman."

Barker's hand reached for Lois' waistline. He could see frayed threads where the button had been ripped off. He fumbled for her zipper. Lois watched him with detached curiosity, not flinching despite the man's hand grazing her groin. When the zipper was down, he pulled his hand away from her crotch as quickly as he could. After a brief pause, Barker put his hands inside of the waistband in front and started to pull.

"No."

He stopped at the clown's command. Barker turned toward the voice, and caught his breath with excitement. Mr. Joker had painted his mouth, making the horrific clown's visage complete. He was terrifying and magnificent at once.

The Joker walked forward slowly, gesturing with his arms. "No, Barker, you put your hands inside the waist at her _hips_ , and you pull them down _slooooowly."_ Barker clasped his hands together nervously, and brought them up under his own chin, paralyzed with uncertainty.

The left side of the Joker's face hitched up with a scoundrel's sneer. There was still time for a little fun before the bat would show up. Teeming with excitement over the anticipated arrival, the Joker sought a temporary outlet for the energy.

Coercing people into debauchery was always entertaining. And this moment was all-too ripe with lubricious possibilities.

He could make it quick and dirty. The way he liked it.

He came up behind the smaller man and took his hands in his own, controlling Barker like a marionette. Lois noted that the Joker didn't seem remotely bothered in the least by Barker's unclothed state. "Here," (smack) "let me show you how you do it-ah." Barker felt electricity course through his body with a jolt at the sensation of the Joker standing behind his naked form, hands on top of his. He instantly grew hard, and his breathing became labored under the clown mask. The Joker couldn't help but notice Barker's obvious arousal, and he smirked with amusement. Lois saw it too, and grimaced. The Joker pressed his body against the back of Barker's, urging him forward until he was sandwiched against Lois.

The Joker met Lois' eyes in an unwavering stare from above Barker's head. "Now, you put your hands inside of Lois' pants, _here_." Lois felt the Joker urge Barker's hands inside her waistband at the hips. "Don't ball your fingers, Tinkerbell, spread them out, like this." The Joker threaded his fingers through Barker's, his fingertips touching Lois' flesh underneath. He began kneading her skin, coaxing Barker to splay his fingers for maximum contact on her body. Barker uncurled his fingers so that the sides of each finger were extended the full length along the Joker's. "That's it, Barker."

Lois looked down at Barker. He wasn't looking at her, or any part of her body, despite her breasts right below his chin. She saw that Barker was watching the Joker's hands on his own. He was close enough to her to have his bare arousal touch her thigh against her pants. Barker gasped at the sensation, and nearly came on the spot. With a trace of shame, Lois lifted her eyes again to meet the Joker's.

His gaze was boring into her. There was wicked intension in his eyes, as evidenced by his growing smile.

"Now, slowly drop the pants down her legs." Lois felt ten fingers on each hip slide down the length of her legs slowly, as the Joker guided Barker to disrobe her. The sensation was both horrifying and stimulating simultaneously. The Joker smirked. _A matching bra and panty set. How conventional._ His smirk grew to a grin at seeing the circular indentations in her skin, left by the elastic of her knee socks around her upper calves. Lois was aware that her last physical defense was literally being stripped from her. Although she felt a sense of trust with the Joker, something deep within her stirred with fright at the look in his eyes.

It was animal, and it was hungry.

As if reading her thoughts, the tip of his tongue swiped slowly over his upper lip, curled back into his mouth, then appeared again as he suggestively worked it in and out at the corner of his mouth. He curled his lips inward and swallowed, as their fingers traced over Lois' ankles.

"Now, ask her to step back out of the pants."

Barker's breath was labored under the mask. "Step. Step back, p—please."

Lois stepped backward, keeping her eyes on the Joker, who never took his eyes from her. "Now, we stand up again." The Joker kept his hands over Barker's. Barker could barely contain his excitement as the two men stood up in unison, running their hands upward along the outer part of Lois' legs. The Joker's body was pressed against the back of the smaller man.

"Isn't she… beautiful, Barker?"

"Yes… sir," Barker breathed heavily. "Yes."

An evil smile spread across his face. " _Touch_ her, Barker."

Lois' eyes widened, as the Jokers' narrowed. The Joker raised Barker's hands to Lois' breasts. Just before they cupped them from underneath, the Joker withdrew his hands, leaving Barker to touch Lois alone. Lois looked down at Barker with a furrowed brow, then back up at the Joker in confusion. _Why are you making Barker touch me like this?_

The Joker read her thoughts. _Because I_ can, _that's why. And I like watching you, as you struggle with the shame of_ being _watched, while this naked man touches you. I know he repulses you, Lois._

The Joker read both the murky confusion and diluted horror in Lois' face at being molested at his command. "Are you enjoying this, Barker?" (smack) "I know I am. And if _I'm_ enjoying it, then I know that Lois is, too. Aren't you, Sweet Tart?" Her dulled emotions slowly began to surface. Pangs of embarrassment bubbled up, and she began to feel a vague sense of terror.

The sight of her compromised composure caused a throbbing in the Joker's loins. Before him stood the woman who had been so proud, so self-assured… and so foolish in being the mouth piece to an institution that tried to perpetuate a mockery of him. And now she was humbled. She was shamed, and without dignity. Controlled.

Degraded.

The moment was the nadir of her being and one of the intoxicants fueling his excitement.

And he intended to take her down even further.

The Joker took a step toward Lois, with Barker still between them. He reached forward to clasp the sides of Lois' face, knowing exactly what would happen when he did.

And it _did_ happen.

In the small of his naked back, Barker could feel the Joker's arousal press against him through his pants. The sensation was too much for him to bear. Before he could control himself, Barker felt his body seize uncontrollably. His grip tightened around Lois' breasts, clamping them painfully hard. He gasped as his body released, and Lois yelped in pain. The Joker held her head steady, ensuring he could see her reaction. Lois saw nefarious delight in his eyes and in his smile. Then she felt a warm fluid on her right thigh. Barker's body shuddered again, and all three of them looked downward.

Lois gaped at the ejaculate, as the stickiness dripped down her bare leg.

A stronger sense of emotion finally surfaced. Shame and disgust stained Lois' face crimson, and her eyes started to tear. The Joker threw his head back and laughed, as he released Lois' face from his hold. "Barker, what have you done, boy?" He slapped Barker good-naturedly on the back.

Barker was in shock. He began stammering, not sure if he should apologize or declare his undying loyalty to Mr. Joker right then and there.

"Barker," the Joker scolded, "you know that we were getting Lois ready for _company_. I can't show her off with Barker-goo on her leg, can I?"

Barker hung his head in embarrassment, and shook it remorsefully.

"We don't have time to give Lois a bath just now," his eyes rested on Lois' face, "so you're going to have to lick it up."

Barker quickly turned his head upward to look at Mr. Joker, not thinking he'd heard correctly. "Sir?"

The Joker looked down at him in annoyance. "Lick it. _Up_. I want to watch you do it."

Barker felt conflicted, but did as he was told. He got down on his knees, lifted up the bottom of his rubber clown mask, and began to lick up his own ejaculate off of Lois' thigh. She recoiled at the sensation. The Joker steadied her with his hands on her shoulders. "Don't move, Lois. Barker needs to clean you up-ah." He looked down to see Barker's red tongue swiping at Lois' leg. "Good. Now, uh, suck the rest of it off. Put your whole mouth on her leg and _suck_."

Barker complied, and Lois felt jolted by the wet touch. She could feel her own loins stir at the sensation, which embarrassed and confused her. The Joker raised his eyes to Lois' face, resting his focus on her mouth. "How does that feel, Queen of Tarts? Hmmmm?" He looked her in the eye. "How does it feel to have a little clown at your feet like a dog, sucking on your leg? I could have him hump your leg, too, if that's what you want."

He snickered, took her face roughly with one of his hands and leaned toward her ear. His voice was a husky whisper. "But I know you'd prefer to be humped by a _big_ clown, wouldn't you?" His breath was hot on her neck, and her body involuntarily shuddered. She closed her eyes and pursed her lips, not knowing how to respond. He cuffed her on the cheek, turned, and abruptly made his way to leave, shaking his head vigorously to ward off his own sexual arousal.

When he got to the door, he turned to face both Lois and Barker, who wiped at his mouth from under his mask. "I've got to run downstairs to get a few things. The clock is ticking, after all." The Joker's eyes traveled the length of Lois' body in an appreciating sweep, and he made no effort to hide it. The sight of her next to Barker was stark, a true beauty-and-the-beast contrast.

"Lois, would you feel more comfortable slipping into your new outfit with your… your _undergarments_ still on?"

She looked down at herself, then back at him. "What do _you_ want?"

The Joker rumbled a low laugh. "Good answer, Sweet Tart-ah." His tongue poked out briefly at the side of his mouth. "For now, they stay on. For now."

_So I'll have something else to remove from your body after our guest arrives._

"Barker, get Lois into that pink slip. She'd needs to be dressed when I return. I have an accessory to go with the outfit." The right side of his mouth hitched up, the scar puckering his cheek in a pronounced fashion. "And when I get back, we're all going to take our places. You see, we're going to be putting on a welcome show for an old friend of mine. He just _loves_ surprises."

The clown began cackling as he darted down the hallway, leaving Barker and Lois to stare at each other in confused hesitation.

The small man reached down and picked up the pink slip. He felt its smooth texture between his fingers. Mr. Joker wanted Lois to wear it, to make her pretty. Barker furrowed his brow at the thought. _He_ wanted to be the one that Mr. Joker thought was pretty.

Contorting his arms through the straps, Barker pulled the pink satin teddy down over his own body instead of Lois'. Without any words, he twisted his shoulders to and fro, feeling the hem twirl outward femininely with each turn. He looked at Lois silently as he taunted her.

Lois didn't think the Joker would be pleased with Barker for this.

________________________________

He'd coasted the length of over four city blocks down the street. He scanned each row house for traces of inhabitants. Old cars with parts missing were scattered along the curb in random locations. There were broken syringes on the sidewalks, boarded up windows and tattered signs posted on most of the doors reading, "CONDEMNED". The Batman could see most of the houses had broken windows in some areas, or even doors hanging in the frames at angles. These houses were uninhabitable, even for squatters. Gotham's impending winter would prove too much for anyone trying to take shelter where the cold could so easily seep in.

Each set of row houses was separated from the next bunch by an alley that served to allow tenants to pull their cars around to the back, to park in a makeshift lot. While passing the alley separating the fourth and fifth set of row houses, he saw what he was looking for: the blue and green neon signs were nearly right across from his location on the other side of the river, but the red sign was down a bit further. Standing on its own.

The Batman caught his breath. _This is it. This is the area._

Passing in front of the fifth set of row houses, he focused on the ones bookending the development. The Joker would have more privacy in an end unit. Though it was unlikely there were any homeless taking shelter in any of these houses now, only a month ago as fall began, there may have been some strays who could bear the temperatures. The Joker would buffer for maximum privacy, if there were that possibility, and choose an end unit. But both end units seemed as poorly kempt as the others.

The black vehicle silently rolled toward the sixth set of row houses, the last on the street. It would be logical for the Joker to choose the last set of houses; the location was so remote, it would be less likely that drug addicts would take shelter too far from a place where they could get a fix. But something caught the Batman's eye as he passed by the gap between housing developments: a few cars parked on the gravel behind the last house in the fifth set of row houses.

_The sixth set of row houses would be too obvious, all the way at the end of the street. He must be in the fifth set._

He backed the tumbler prototype up and scanned the unit on the end of the fifth cluster of row houses. The windows were boarded up, but the ones that weren't didn't have any visible breaks. There was no discernable light coming from inside, but the windows could be painted black.

Then, something caught his eye: unbroken syringes. There was a collection of unbroken syringes on the front stoop and stairs. They were meant to look discarded, an attempt to blend the house in with the rest on the street, as another seemingly abandoned drug house. The needles were positioned as if tossed down in random fashion, but they weren't. There wasn't enough space between them for an adult to take a step without stepping on one of them. Broken syringes didn't make as much noise when stepped on as whole ones.

_Those syringes are there as a warning system. Someone can't get too close without breaking them. It's a crude but well-disguised system to alert anyone inside to an intruder._

This was it.

The top of the vehicle retracted, and the Batman hauled himself out, leaving the roof open. If Lois were still inside and alive, then their escape needed to be quick. He wanted to be able to get her into his vehicle as quickly as possible.

He hoped that he wasn't too late.

________________________________

Lois was in place. So was Barker. Everything was staged. They understood what they had to do.

The Joker was teeming with frantic excitement: he had slipped down to the basement for one of the video cameras, and while there, spotted the Batman's vehicle on the screen. It was being captured by the camera that filmed the street right out in front of the row house.

Then, movement on another screen. The side of the house. A dark figure.

_Him._

The Batman made his way to the back of the row house. The Joker bit his lip to keep from cackling, but grinned as he made his rapid ascent up the stairs, all the way to the top floor, and back into The Room.

They were all waiting for the Batman's arrival.

________________________________

Surely, the house was booby-trapped from the outside. He reached for his grappling gun, then hesitated. The Joker would _expect_ him to try an alternate entry. The Batman tilted his head back and looked at the roof. There was probably some sort of trap designed to maim him, should he climb up the side and hoist himself onto the roof.

The doors on the first level just seemed too obvious an entry point.

Perhaps that was the best way to go. With his thick boots, he couldn't possibly go through the front without announcing his presence by crushing the syringes. He made his way to the back door.

_Whatever is on the other side is likely a trap. No matter the point of entry, there is danger waiting. Stay sharp and stay wary._

He reached for the handle to the back door, and found that it was unlocked. Almost an invitation, of sorts.

He had no choice. He entered through the door into the kitchen.

The kitchen was markedly warmer than outside, evidence that for its dilapidated exterior, the house was well insulated; inhabitable. The lone street light outside illuminated the kitchen through a window, which surprisingly wasn't covered with a curtain or some other covering.

_Wait. That's not right. The Joker wouldn't choose this location for its privacy, only to leave a window uncovered._ It had to be uncovered for a purpose.

_I'm supposed to see something. The Joker wants me to have confirmation that I'm in the right place._ He looked down on the floor by the sink and found his confirmation: there was a sizeable pool of blood on the floor. Relatively fresh. Most of it had dried, but parts had pooled thick enough, as to still be able to reflect the light that came through the window.

He walked forward through the kitchen, but stopped when he was startled by a scream.

It was a woman's scream, coming from upstairs.

And then, the telltale cackle.

The Batman followed the sound forward to the front of the house, toward the front door. There were dozens of locks along the entire length of the door, almost comical in number. It looked like something out of a cartoon, the signature of a paranoid schizophrenic trying to keep the world out. As he rounded the banister to take the first stair, he stopped abruptly.

Lying across the bottom half of the staircase was the body of a young man, probably a teenager. The kid had clearly died of a gunshot wound to the head, and the Batman quickly deduced it was his blood in the kitchen, an unfortunate victim whom the Joker likely attacked right after coming inside through the back door.

The body had been posed: the boy's arm was extended above his head resting on the stairs, his hand fashioned into a fist with one finger outstretched. The corpse was pointing upward, to the top of the stairs. A sick invitation from the clown.

He scanned for any wires or devices wired to the kid, which could serve as either an alarm or trap. Finding none, he gingerly pulled the kid's body off the stairs and laid him down on the floor in the foyer; partially out of respect for the deceased, but certainly to provide a clear path back down the stairs without obstruction.

There was the sound of a loud slap. Something heavy hit the floor above him, and there was another woman's scream. He moved with agility up the stairs to the second floor, rounding the top to face an open doorway into a room with two illuminated televisions in it. Both had the sound off, but were tuned to news stations covering the chaos that was unleashed around Gotham at the Joker's very hand.

As he approached the open doorway warily, he heard shuffling on the floor above him. And then, the voice:

"I'm gonna start cutting her limbs off one by one if you don't get up here faster. And you know I don't make idle threats." There was a pregnant pause. "Do I, _Batman?"_

He bounded up the stairs to the third floor.

Down at the end of the hall on the left, a light shone out from under a closed door. Another taunt wafted out from under it.

"You took so long to get here tonight, I had extra time on my hands to become better acquainted with her. Lois Lane and I…"

The Batman's anger began to stir.

"…now know each other… quite _in_ timately. Just wait until you see what I've done to her."

All night he had imagined what horrors she had been through. A vision of Lois' face carved with a garish Glasgow smile flashed in his mind, and the Batman reeled at the thought. He pushed the image from his mind, fighting to keep his senses sharp. As he approached the closed doorway, he saw another sizable amount of blood on the floor, and on the wall, radiating outward in a violent pattern.

He steadied himself as he approached the door. Then, he picked up speed, and threw a forceful kick with his right leg. The door flew open, back inside the room, and the Dark Knight braced for the onslaught.

He knew that coming in through the door would make him an easy target, a sure mark for the Joker to hit. His moved with great speed, and strategized his movement based on the most likely attack. Immediately after kicking the door open, he dove forward and to the right slightly, tucking to roll in a single somersault to keep his momentum going. He needed to get low, out of the way of any intended gunshots at his chest or head.

While going into the dive, he spotted figures in the middle of the room. When rounding out to his feet again, he stopped in a crouched position, arm extended with the armored forearms posed to shoot chevron blades defensively toward the clown in retaliation for the inevitable attack.

But there was no attack. There was no clown.

There was only… a scene so macabre and startling that he could only look at it in absolute confusion.

Lois Lane stood tall on a small stepladder in the middle of the room, her body wrapped in a black sheet from head to toe. Her arms were extended outward, holding up a tattered black blanket behind her, as if it were a cape, which extended all the way to the floor. There was a black mask over her head with pointed ears.

She was dressed as a mockery of the Batman himself.

At her feet lay the corpse of a burley naked man, lying on his stomach, head turned toward the Batman with his eyes and mouth open. He had no left ear and a sizable tattoo on his back. His mouth had been painted red in an exaggerated fashion like the Joker's. He wore only red clown shoes, a curly red clown wig and red rubber nose, slipping down for the lack of an ear to tuck the string around.

Sitting on the back of the dead man's thighs was a small man wearing a clown mask and a woman's satin pink teddy. To the Batman's horror, he was grinding against the bare backside of the corpse, simulating anal sex.

The little man turned to look at the Batman, and said from behind his mask, "If you want to see someone _really_ get fucked, then you've come to the right show."

There was a squeak as the door he'd kicked open swung on its hinges. From the corner of his eye, he saw the movement of a man. In a split second, the Caped Crusader had to consider the irony of the Joker hiding behind the door. It just seemed too obvious.

In a flash, the Batman was on his feet, delivering a solid punch to the man's midsection. But it wasn't the Joker. It was the corpse of another young man, hung by his neck behind the door. His body jerked from the impact of the hit like a punching bag. The top part of his face was gone.

_Always mind your surroundings._

And then, the dawning realization. _How could I have been—_

There had been no sound. Just the flash of a reflection of purple in the glass of the one window in The Room. The Batman felt two metal prongs touch his left cheek on bare skin, and he smelled greasepaint.

Right before he smelled electricity and his own burning skin.

As his body pitched forward and his mind sank into blackness, he realized the Joker had been standing behind Lois' makeshift cape the whole time, just waiting for the right moment to strike.

The Joker was not only an agent of chaos, but a maestro of surprises. The Joker had wanted to surprise the Batman, and he had succeeded. In spades.

________________________________

He felt a blow to his mid-section. Then another. He slowly roused from the thick haze of unconsciousness. He could feel his arms stretched painfully over his head. His feet wouldn't move. His body was pinned to the floor, and the Joker was kicking him awake.

As his eyes fluttered open, he saw a woman enshrouded in black standing above him. Though her eyes were nearly vacant, they bore a slight trace of curiosity as she looked at him. _Rachel?_ Before he could focus on her features, his view of her was obstructed. The Joker bent down, suspending his face mere inches above that of his new captive.

A slow grin stretched his mouth to obscene proportions. His tongue worked its way out to swipe at the outer corner of his bottom lip. "You have no idea how long I've waited for this, Batman."

The Joker rose, towering over the restrained man as he lay harnessed to the floor. The overhead lights made the knife in the Joker's hand gleam like polished silver.

 

. . . . . . .

Author's Notes for "Caught"

. . . . . . .

_I wanted the Batman's position at the end of this chapter to echo Lois' at the beginning: both find themselves prostrate on the floor, in a position of the ultimate disadvantage, while the Joker appears to tower over them omnipotently._

_As for the, ahem, interaction between Lois and Barker, as directed by the Joker, he choreographed that moment to be as uncomfortable for both of them as possible. Not only is he aware of Lois' repulsion by Barker, but he also knows Barker has no desire to touch a woman sexually. He thoroughly enjoyed making two people feel violated, for the sheer sport of it._

_Back in Chapter 26, "Intersections", Lois uses the bathroom in The Room, and notices copious amounts of blood staining the bathtub and floor. The blood that she saw was Zender's._

_In his excitement over the Batman's impending arrival, the Joker sees flashes of possible outcomes of their interaction in the same way he considered how to deal with Curtis' assault, back in Chapter 32, "Unraveling". When excited, his brilliant mind ramps up into overdrive, heightening his already frightening acumen to new levels of ever sharper awareness and creativity._

_Back in Chapter 2, "A Grave Misstep", Tangier made a remark at the Joker's expense, which resulted in his evisceration. They had just pulled off a heist, and the Joker was basking in the excitement of the Batman showing up. I wanted to explain in this chapter why the Joker was experiencing such elation: it wasn't just the thrill of the heist that fueled him; he had confirmation that the Batman was more concerned with trying to thwart his machinations, than with trying to interfere with the street wars._

_-4ofCups, 2010.01.15_


End file.
